Transformation in C Minor
by hazakaza
Summary: Harry begins his quest for the horcruxes with an unlikely companion, and Draco Malfoy is hidden in plain sight-as Harry. Totally not DH compliant.
1. Chapter 1: Privet Drive, Again REVISED

Author's Note:

I suppose I should explain myself.

I started writing this fic 5 years ago, right after the Half-Blood Prince came out. I was incredibly lonely that summer, and thought it would be fun. According to the reviews, it was fun for everyone else as well! But I went to school, and became much less lonely, and more importantly had other things to do with my time, and ended up never finishing this fic.

That is going to change, starting now. I've been inspired by Mark Reads Harry Potter (google it; it's someone who is reading Harry Potter for the first time all the way through) and he's put out a call to fanfic. Well, I think this fanfic is pretty damn good, particularly when you consider I wrote most of it (and plotted out the whole thing) when the 7th book wasn't out. So here we are. I'm updating. If you're still interested in it after 5 long years, you have nothing but my humble thanks. If you're new, pretend that the 7th book isn't out yet and no release date has been set and you've just watched Dumbledore die and you _need_ to know what happens next. Anything revealed in book 7 isn't part of this fic. This is my version.

Note: This fic is obviously not for profit. It is for fun. I don't own any of the characters or other trademarked stuff in it. Obviously.

Privet Drive was quiet, a well-lighted suburban community. It was night, on Privet Drive, and the streetlamps were lit brightly, as if to assure the inhabitants of each house that they were totally safe, despite the grim mood of the country. Terrorist attacks, they were being called, these horrible killings, terrorist attacks by an unknown party, though certain elements told that they were from a hitherto unheard of entity, using curious and downright incredible means. Only one person on Privet Drive knew otherwise, and he was fast asleep.

A cat yowled and ran off as there were suddenly three people on Privet Drive who understood this new breed of "terrorist." A finger clicked, and clicked, and the light from all the streetlamps dimmed and faded away.

"This way," a voice whispered, and the gentle swish of fabric preceded them. The hem of the robes on two figures-both in black-rustled the dew on the grass. A faint sob emerged from one covered face. "Silence," the other commanded. They moved, the taller of the two pushing the other with a firm, pale hand. The second, shorter and bent, allowed itself to be buffeted to the door of number four on the street. A sort of stick emerged from the arm of the cloak that was not holding the bent form that now leaned heavily against the door.

"Straighten up." The wand-for a wand it was-tapped the lock. The door clicked open, and the door swung shut behind them.

Within the house, all was quiet. The taller figure revealed his head, black hair that appeared unwashed, and a face frigtheningly pale.

"Remove your cloak, Draco," the man said quietly. Draco obeyed, face still tilted to the floor.

"Professor Snape," Draco mumured in a slightly shaking voice. "Where are we?"

Snape waved his wand over his head and appeared to be pointing it through the ceiling at things. "The safest place I know. Dumbledore himself made sure." He lowered his wand. "It would be far easier to just kill you."

"You're a Death Eater, sir. Why don't you." Draco's voice was still a low and tremulous whisper.

"Get upstairs," Snape snapped in disgust.

Upstairs-Snape seemed to know the way-they found their way to a boy's room. There, lying in a disheveled bed, was a sleeping form that each knew.

"Here?" Draco asked emptily, as if he hoped desperately that Snape were joking. "How am I safe here?"

"It's safer than failing the Dark Lord," Snape snarled.

Draco began to pant, his eyes darting around the room. "What . . . does the Dark Lord do to those who . . . who . . ."

"Fail him?" Snape smiled unpleasantly. "The Cruciatus Curse is considered the merciful turn of his wand. And he can always use another Infieri." Snape twirled his wand once casually around a finger.

"He- He hates me_,_ Professor," Draco stuttered weakly. "Potter despises me."

"Don't be so hasty, Draco," Snape drawled. His eyes narrowed, and he surveyed the sleeping young man. "He'll be too busy trying to get at me to bother with you, if you really think it will come to that." Snape held his lit wand aloft to get a closer look, making sure of the scar across the forehead. "And don't forget that he did see. He saw that you _failed__._" He moved silently, dodging piles of books and Muggle clothing, toward the side of the bed. He gestured with his wand, muttering, "_Muffliato__."_ Then, Snape leaned close and felt the breath rushing in and out of the boy's nose. "Wake up, Potter."

The body stirred, but didn't move.

Impatience suffused Snape's face, and he snarled "_Aguamenti__,_" and water poured onto Harry.

Two luminous green eyes opened and slid into focus on the close face of Snape. Harry spluttered, his hand groping for a wand while his other fist lashed out, reaching to hit him.

"Gonna . . . gonna . . . wand," Harry panted blearily.

"You'll do nothing of the sort. _Accio__wand__._" It flew obediently to his hand, and Snape tucked it away into his robes. "If I wanted to kill you, Potter, I could. If I wanted to capture you and hand you to the Dark Lord, I could. Are you awake enough to understand that?"

Harry replied with an attempt to kick Snape's wand hand. Snape responded with a quick spell, and Harry quickly recognized the nonverbal _levicorpus_ that he himself had used so recently. Upside-down, Harry began shouting. "Too cowardly to fight an armed opponent, then, Snivellus?"

Snape let Harry drop to the floor and was on him in an instant, foot pressing onto his throat. "Never . . ." the foot ground closer, "_never_ call me a coward." He held him there for a moment, and then lifted his foot and took a step back, allowing the boy room to breathe.

Harry choked and gasped for a few moments, then stood up slowly. "Why are you here, then?Just to gloat? Kill me? Take me to your master?"

Snape's eyes narrowed at the childhood taunt. "I'm here to do you a favor and offer you something useful."

"Oh. Favors. Fantastic. Last favor you did me ended up a disaster. Occlumency, you may recall, is not my strong suit." Harry's voice became closer, lower, more pained. "Only reason I went was for Dumbledore. Only reason I bothered respecting you at all was Dumbledore. But you took care of that."

"As touching as this little encounter is, you'll have to pardon my need to interrupt you. You haven't quite realized who . . . and what . . . I have brought you."

Harry waited in silence, face and eyes blank, in shadow.

"Draco . . ." Snape called softly.

Draco stood like he was boneless, as if the will in Snape's words were the only things holding him up.

"Draco no longer wishes to be a Death Eater," Snape said.

"I know."

"Do you, now?"

"Yes." Harry's eyes flicked over to Draco's cloak. "I was there. I saw everything."

Draco looked up for a second, daring to hope.

"Then you understand why he must hide," Snape said.

"Yes."

"And you are willing to help him?"

Harry looked around his room, barely seeing through his fury at Snape's audacity. "Some favor. Maybe." He chuckled faintly. "He'll like my aunt and uncle."

Snape opened his cloak and removed a large flask. Snape moved to the bed and, after running his spidery hands through the sheets, found a hair and placed it in the flask. "Polyjuice, for Draco. He can hide as you, and you may begin your search."

Harry tried not to jolt. How much had Dumbledore told Snape before . . . before . . . "What search," Harry asked cautiously.

"Don't play stupid, boy. The Horcruxes. I can help you, Potter. As much as I dislike it, I am still bound . . ."

"Bound? Bound to the man you murdered?" Harry's voice had gone up in voice and pitch, and he laughed tinnily. "What, did he make you sign something? Take some blood? Take you into a contract that even your greasy, slimy, murdering mind couldn't find it's way out of?"

Snape's hand tightened on his own wand, and he pointed it at Harry. "No, Potter. Recall: I could kill you if I wanted to."

"Do it, then."

They stood there in the darkness, frozen, for a long minute. The numbers flipped over on Harry's digital clock. Snape slowly lowered his wand.

Harry watched his eyes, but there was only blank emptiness there. Nothing to tell him if Snape was telling the truth or spinning a new web of lies.

"Draco will pose as you, here, safe, while you can come with me. I will help you as far as I can to find the horcruxes and destroy them." Snape's words were uttered with more distaste than Harry had ever heard. "I know more about the Dark Lord than you ever will, and you'll die before you manage to get your hands on even one if you do it by yourself, with your incompetent friends." Snape removed Harry's wand from his pocket and placed it on Harry's bed. "If you're going to try to kill me, do so now and stop wasting my time."

Harry didn't move a muscle toward his bed. "Why d'you need me? Can't you do it alone?"

"I have promised to protect you." His tone was inscrutable.

"You killed Dumbledore, do you honestly think-"

Snape waved his hand dismissively. "Trust me or don't, Potter. I would prefer that Draco were safe here and that you were helping me complete this task, but if your distrust and selfishness run so deep-"

"What are you playing at, then?" Harry roared suddenly. "You got my parents killed, too. Is that not enough? Haven't you done enough to me? What more do you want?"

The silence stretched out again, long and sinuous, snakelike, before them. Harry wondered idly about Occlumency, and used the time to let his mind empty of his anger, his hurt, his memories. His mind faded into white noise. He heard three breaths, all at different rates; three hearts, beating the same.

"Either help Draco or do not," Snape said finally. "If you tell me to leave you now, Potter, Draco will die, and you'll never see my face again." He pointed to the wand. "Come with me, and I will lead you to the Dark Lord and help you destroy him. The choice is yours."


	2. Chapter 2: Dark Magic

Another author's note: If you're still interested after all these years, you should probably reread the whole thing anyway, because it's changing in bits, to stitch up some obvious plotholes.

I in no way own these characters. I do own this plot.

Part 2: Dark Magic

Snape and Harry remained silent, Harry's mind buzzing madly. Since Dumbledore's death, he had thought of so many ways to murder the man before him, of how to find him, how to may him pay. Dumbledore had been dead less than two weeks, but it felt like years. He had honed his white-hot fury to a sharp, cold, calculating weapon, willing to strike, fast as a viper-but now, confronted not with Snape in obvious collusion with the Death Eaters, but here, offering help, it threw him.

If he was sincere-_bollocks__,_ Harry thought, a tiny internal voice that sounded remarkably like Ron shouted-but if he was sincere, he was, Harry had to admit, his best bet at finding and destroying Horcruxes. Hermione was smart, but Snape had years and years of practice and knowledge on all of them. And if he wasn't sincere, and it was a very vast game he was playing at, Harry was still not quite willing to let this man-this murderer-slip through his hands like he had so easily before. If Snape was lying, well-Harry could be treacherous, too. Better to see your enemy before you, he decided, than set him free to wreak havoc.

And there was Draco-Harry had seen him lower his wand in the Astronomy tower. As much as they disliked each other personally, it galled him to leave someone-anyone-to the mercy of the Death Eaters. It would be as good as killing him himself.

Snape had come to Harry, though. There was something to that. He was still, in some fashion, loyal to Dumbledore. An echo of something returned to him: a vision he had seen in Snape's own mind. A tiny boy with greasy hair, hiding in a corner as a man and a woman-his parents-screamed at one another . . . his own father, tormenting the young Snape . . . and the spectre of Voldemort behind it all. Yes, Harry thought. If he's sincere, then he'll bring me to Voldemort. And if it came down to choosing between the two evils, it would have to be Voldemort. Without Voldemort, Snape was just a pathetic bully. Without Voldemort, none of this would have happened. Yes, Harry thought. He didn't like it, but he couldn't pass up this bargain. It felt like making a pact with the devil, but there it was: despite his hate, his cold and furious anger, he had to follow Snape, if only to see where it went. And, if things went badly-well. Harry would mean the Curse, now.

Harry was shaken out of his reverie by Draco, staggering slightly.

"What happened to him?" Harry asked Snape, his voice neutral.

"He hasn't slept in a few days."

"Professor," Draco said finally, his voice slurred with sleep. "Could we-"

"What's the plan, then? He stays here and impersonates me? How soon can we leave?"

"It is not so simple as all that. You must place some memories in this Pensive." He conjured the bowl with a flick.

"Why?"

Draco sat on the floor heavily, his head in his hands.

Snape seemed to lose his temper. "Stupid boy, have you ignored everything I have said? Draco-" he gestured, "-is going to pose as you, so he is safe, and act as your decoy. He is in dire danger for not completing his task. As much as I'd like to let the Dark Lord destroy every worthless particle of his being, Dumbledore would have . . . disliked . . . my callousness." Snape's jaw worked, with anger or regret, Harry could not tell. "He needs these memories to pose as you properly. You are going to come with me. With Draco here as you, no one will look for you coming for the rest of the Horcruxes."

"My friends," Harry replied, shaking his head. "We are going to search together."

"Fool," Snape spat. "As if a bumbling Weasley, an overachieving Muggle-born witch, and a senseless, arrogant boy like you could even hope to defeat the Dark Lord."

"We were going to get help from the Order of the Phoenix," Harry defended.

"As if the Dark Lord hasn't already thought of that! As if he has not infiltrated the Order already!"

"Voldemort? In the Order?"

"It's not so hard, boy," Snape sneered. "There are many things you don't know."

Harry bowed his head, thinking. "Why should I trust you?"

Snape flicked his wand again, and Harry's want went zooming toward him, poking him in the chest like a threatening finger.

"There," he declared, scornful. "You can kill me. I'm sure you hate me enough to make a decent killing curse." Harry did take the wand. "What are you waiting for?" Snape taunted. "Do it."

"You do deserve it," Harry said, in measured words. He plucked the wand out of the air, and suddenly thought of the last time someone had asked for death. Dumbledore's scream, after the last draught of potion . . . the same words, coming out of Snape's mouth, in that mocking tone. "You deserve it," Harry said, more firmly, toying with his wand. "But I won't." He looked up, into Snape's dark eyes. "I won't, beause Dumbledore would have disliked my callousness."

Snape's mouth curled into a small smile. "Throwing my own words back at me. Excellent, Potter, excellent. This may be an interesting journey yet." Snape offered the Penseive. "Now, Potter, to business."

"Right," Harry said, trying to shake the feeling of screaming danger. "I . . . er . . . don't know how."

Snape moved forward and touched Harry's temple with his wand. "Concentrate on the memory to be removed. See it in your mind. Live it again, in your mind."

"What memories?"  
"Representative ones of your life. Not your . . . adventures." Snape still had distaste in his voice, but Harry didn't care.

Droplet after droplet emerged on the tip of Snape's dark wand, filling the Pensieve with pain of Dudley's punches, of Ron and Hermione's laughter, and of the bliss of being with Ginny. Harry could not tell time as his whole life was lived before him, as if he were a spectator. The memories trickled out slowly, and he felt as if part of himself was being spooned out of him, drop by drop, with Snape's wand. Harry shook the feeling and concentrated.

"That will be enough, Potter," Snape said finally. Harry felt exhausted-drained, really-and massaged his temple. He had developed a thundering headache, and realized that the sun had risen already. Draco had long ago sat against the wall and was fast asleep. Snape swirled the bowl and peered in. "Yes, that will be quite enough."

"Wha . . ." Harry yawned, mid-question. "What are we going to do now? My aunt and uncle will be up soon. They barely tolerate one wizard in the house."

"The Muggles, you mean? They'll sleep for quite some time longer, I assure you." Snape pointed at a clear spot on Harry's floor, and an old, elegant chair appeared. Robes whispering, Snape sat in it and looked at Harry. After a moment, Harry settled on the foot of his bed. Snape smiled condescendingly. "You probably have questions for me, and it appears we have some time before Draco will be ready to undertake further efforts. Ask."

Harry took Snape at face value. The first question that jumped to his lips was surprisingly not one of trust, or what had happened, but something that piped up from the bottom of his mind in something like Hermione's voice. "Well . . . er . . . the Dark Arts. What are they, exactly? Is it just destructive spells? Ones that kill or hurt?"

Snape laced his fingers, raising an eyebrow. "Most of the Dark Arts, as you know them, are merely more spells. They aren't really Dark Arts. The Killing Curse is just a way to represent the Dark Arts within a system that rejects them." Snape motioned to Harry's wand, still in his hand. "All you know of magic is wand motions and words. The Dark Arts are more than that. Think, boy. Do you really believe that, at the beginning of humanity, when magic emerged in some of us, that we had language and wands?"

Harry had never thought of this. "Er . . . I suppose they must have taken sticks and . . . you know. Used them as wands. Kept making up words until they hit on a spell, right?"

"Atrociously wrong. As far as we can deduce, all magic is what the Ministry likes to call 'Dark.' However, this magic can be tamed by forcing it into structure, channeling it through wands and words and movement. Spells, in other words. Still, this chaotic 'dark' magic is the way magic is naturally. It is the most powerful sort of magic, but it easily gets out of hand. How do you think magical things happen around young Muggle-born wizards? They aren't using wands. Those who support Dark magic think that wizarding should be kept within wizarding, so we can use Dark magic safely and more freely. Even very strong wizards who use it must always use wands, not only out of habit, but for the sake of control as well. That's why such a strong-and 'dark'-curse as the Killing curse must be meant ferociously. You must _want_ to kill. It is the Dark power behind a spell that drives it."

"But why aren't there more Dark wizards and witches, then? And what's so wrong with it?"  
"This freeer sort of magic feeds on emotion. People would die every time a wizard became angry if magic was allowed this way. That's why wizards are trained from birth to use wands to control their powers. In essence, the Dark wizards are those who wish to be free to use their magic anyway they wish, not just within the refined, finessed confines of spells."

"So . . . you're a Dark wizard."

"Indeed." Snape's eyes stayed with Harry. "A point on which Dumbledore and I differed."

"But how does lineage come into it?"

"Lineage?" Snape sighed, sounded exasperated. "There is an argument that describes how magic should be free, and those without it should serve those with it-but that merely allows wizards dominion over Muggles. There is also the argument that we are a breed apart, and thus should not mingle with lower creatures-like Muggles. Better, but still insufficient. It is mostly a selling point to old, proud families who are dying out, and wish that they, being powerful in both magic and galleons, should not be forced to hide." Snape averted his gaze. "Cowardice, they call it."

Harry stayed silent, recalling Snape's violence at being called a coward.

Snape rose and said, "I'll be looking at that locket, now, Potter."

Harry had been wearing the locket, the locket that cost Dumbledore his life, around his neck. Harry removed it and it lay, limp and innocent, on his palm. Slytherin's locket, supposedly. A lie that cost a great man a great price. He dropped it into Snape's open palm.

Snape toyed with the locket and finally opened it. He scanned the paper within quickly. "Yes," he muttered. "Yes, it's as I thought."

Harry resisted the urge to demand the locket back, to look for what his hours of searching and charming had missed. He maintained some degree of patience, and instead cleared his throat lustily, to remind Snape of his presence.

Snape looked up, surprised that Harry was still there. He cleared his throat and explained haughtily, as if Harry should already know. "This is Regulus Black's locket. The initials are his. Sirius' brother, a Death Eater." Snape smiled a bit unpleasantly. "He tried to leave the . . . ah . . . _service__._ But one cannot truly never leaves the Dark Lord. Not alive."

Harry was tempted to retort that it was no excuse, but a more burning question sprung from his lips. "And you?"

The smile disappeared. "There is powerful Occlumency blocking him, and other powerful magic that convinces him that I am still loyal, Potter."

"Are you sure it's not actual loyalty, then?" Harry asked quietly.

"Potter, I do not have the time to prove myself to you. I need to leave you shortly, and-out of the kindness of my heart," he splayed a spidery hand across his chest, "I have offered to give you answers. It is none of my concern if you don't care for the answers I give you."

Harry took a moment, spun his wand once or twice, and then nodded mutely. "I want to kill him myself. With my own wand."

Snape stood, adjusted his robes. "I will see to it," Snape replied coolly, starting for the door. "I will return this evening. Show Draco what's in the pensieve. Help him understand the Muggles as best you can."

Harry swallowed. Taking orders from Snape galled him. Still, the tall, gaunt man who once was his professor watched him from over his sharp, hooked nose. Finally, Harry nodded.


	3. Chapter 3: Memories

Plot is mine. All else is property of J.K. "Muggle Bling" Rowling.

Part Three: Memories

Draco woke alone in an unfamiliar room. It was, he guessed late morning, or maybe afternoon-around 2 PM. He groaned, rubbing his temples, and tried to remember what had happened. For a euphoric moment, he thought he was home again, sleeping in his own bed. His mother would come in with a breakfast tray-one she hadn't made, of course, she was a terrible cook and they had a maid for such things now that Dobby was gone-but his mother would bring the tray and begin to chat about what, exactly, had happened last night. He indulged the fantasy; she would be beaming and graceful, and open his curtains. He would groan perfunctorily, and she would tease him gently about his odd sleeping habits. She would sit down next to his bed and stroke his hair for a moment and smile that smile that made her look foolish, the smile that opened her face to him as wide as the moon, the smile that told Draco that she loved him very much.

He closed his eyes and kept the shimmering picture in his mind to the exclusion of the rest of the world.

There was the sound of rustling cloth, and an Invisibility cloak met the floor. "Er . . . Malfoy?"

Draco's eyes snapped open, and he fumbled for his wand. "Potter!" he gasped. His eyes narrowed, and he crouched defensively on the bed. "What are you doing in my house?"

Harry snorted. "I should ask that of you. Look around. This is my room."

Draco glanced around and saw nothing of his own. Instead, he saw an owl cage, and a snowy owl-_Potter__'__s_ snowy owl, Hedwidgeon or some idiotic name-perching on the bedpost. "Fine. Not my house." He didn't move from his crouch. The events of the past few days hovered at the edge of his perception, but he pushed them away.

Harry sighed and scratched his head. "Well, er, it's complicated, and it would be better if Snape were here to explain, but I'll have to do. You're . . . ah . . . going to be me."

The past few months came flooding back. Memories of Hogwarts crept through his mind. The opal necklace, the poison . . . Dumbledore. Running with Snape across a cold field and Disapparating . . .

Harry looked on as Draco's face melted from threatened to afraid. "Draco?" Harry asked cautiously. "What . . . happened?"  
"You mean after I killed your precious father figure, Dumbledore?" Draco said scathingly.

Harry would have been annoyed, or laughed, at any other time, but he understood somehow that this was not a place where either was appropriate. Malfoy was delicate, at the moment, and valuable information could be coaxed out. He felt, for a second, as if he had taken Felix again. Harry replied quietly, "You didn't, though. I was in his office, invisible and paralyzed. I saw everything."

Draco flushed, his pale complexion flooding with blood. "Well, then, you understand why I'm on the run, then, don't you?"

Harry measured his words with care. "I understand why you're on the run. I'm going to help you." He paused and watched Malfoy's tension slacken slightly. "But I'd like to know what's happened in the past few weeks. Where's Snape been taking you? What have you been doing?"

Draco sneered, again on the defense. "Not your business, _Potter__._"

Harry removed the Pensieve from the bedside table with care. "You're going to go into my memories, Draco. Some of them my most cherished thoughts." He swirled the bowl and Ginny's face rose to the surface. "Some of them are very private." The tip of Voldemort's wand, and his mother and father climbing out, falling to the ground. Sirius, falling through a curtain. Harry looked up, face slightly tinged with pain. "You're going to know everything about me, Draco. I don't think knowing this about you is asking too much."

Draco appeared at a loss. "It is," he snapped, and snatched the Pensive out of Harry's hands. Draco shoved a hand into the diaphonous surface of the memories, and stood still. He was sucked into the bowl through his hand, pulled, and it came to rest on the bed with a soft _thump__._ It was like watching someone Disapparate.

Harry sighed. Now all he could do is wait. To pass the time, Harry picked up the book he had been reading while Draco slept. Hermione had sent him home with a number of books on dueling and combat. As tempted as Harry was to get some practical training on Dudley, he knew it would be imprudent. This summer, however, Dudley and the Dursleys left Harry alone. Petunia even left plates from meals covered in the fridge, labelled with a note in her spiky script: _Harry__._ Dudley didn't even try to pick at the plates. That much fear was a pleasant power to hold over the boy who had tortured him almost all of his life. Still, it was lonely, since owls were not as safe as they used to be, and Harry feared for Hedwig. She had taken to tearing out some of her leg feathers recently, out of stress and, Harry was sure, a certain degree of neglect on his part. She would be staying with Malfoy now, and who knew what that boy would do to her out of revenge for all the perceived slights he had given to Malfoy-and actual slights, Harry thought with shame, remembering Draco trembling, covered in blood, on the bathroom floor. With any luck, they could forge some sort of bond-friendship, he knew, was asking a bit much on such short notice-but a bond that could entice him to help. Hermione and Ron could not possibly be persuaded to _not_ pursue the Horcruxes, Harry mused, that much was certain, and insisting against it would only make them suspicious. Draco would simply have to tag along in lieu of himself.

So now Harry sat, flipping idly through a book he had already read twice and still not understood. After Dumbledore's death, Harry had barely been able to sleep for a week and, instead of lying in bed, staring at his ceiling-which was his custom with insomnia-he instead read the books and practiced his nonverbal spells. He had the Summoning and Banishing charms, among other simple spells, down almost perfectly nonverbal; his aim was sometimes off, but mostly, he hit his mark. With a smile, he recalled Flitwick's class, where he and Ron had had such trouble learning the verbal spell. Harry was now quite taller, broader across the chest, and had lived through more than most wizards had ever seen. His name was appropriate. "The Boy Who Lived," indeed. The words of the prophecy chilled him, though: _Neither__shall__live__while__the__other__survives__ . . . _but the Boy who was Barely Getting By didn't have the same ring to it.

Draco's return was heralded by a gasp, and a pant, and Harry was woken from his brooding.

"Potter-" Draco stuttered out, gazing at the Pensieve in a mixture of horror and awe. "Potter . . . your . . . Sirius- And your parents!" Draco shuddered. "That Basilisk!"

Apparently Harry hadn't managed to exclude all of his-what had Snape called them?-_adventures__._ They were an integral part of who he was, though. They couldn't be ignored just because Snape disliked them.

"So," Harry said colloquially. "Hungry?"

"What?" Draco said, looking dumbfounded.

"We can talk while we eat," Harry said, rising. He went for the door and considered for a moment-Dudley would be out and about with this friends; Petunia would be elsewhere as well, and Vernon would be at work. It was safe, and Harry had set an Intruder Charm on the door to tell him if anyone returned early. "Come on."

Draco stood, smoothing his rumpled robes, leaving the Pensieve. Draco followed, mute, into the kitchen, and Harry cracked some eggs and laid some bacon in a pan. While the food sizzled, Draco spoke up.

"Harry," he muttered. "I didn't know. I never would have . . ." He gripped his forearm, where Harry knew the Dark Mark to be burned into his skin. "I . . . I didn't want to hurt anyone."

Though a small, vindictive voice in him that sounded rather like Sirius wanted to pipe up and chastise Malfoy, Harry's better judgement interfered. "I know. It wasn't about you. Your family."

"Yeah," Draco said, looking at the table, voice low. "My family." He took a deep breath. "Well, that's all shot to hell," Draco muttered, running a hand through his hair. "My dad's in Azkaban, and my mum . . ." A certain degree of cruelty entered his voice, a cruelty that Harry suddenly recognized as a defense mechanism. "You wouldn't understand, Potter. You never _had_ a mother."

Harry slid the food onto two plates before answering. "Everyone has a mother, Malfoy. Even Voldemort." Harry placed bread in the toaster.

Draco winced at the name. "I doubt that."

"You shouldn't." Harry explained succintly what Dumbledore had shown him in the Pensieve, including the Horcruxes. Malfoy listened, rapt, but devouring his food hungrily. They were both finished by the time Harry was through explaining. "And that's what we have to do-find and destroy the remaining Horcruxes."

Draco shook his head. "If that potion weakened Dumbledore that much, who knows what's in the other hiding places? You'll never manage it."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I thought you hated Dumbledore."

"I can respect that he's a powerful wizard. If V . . . You-know-who is afraid of him, then you should respect him." Draco shook his head. "I thought . . ."

Harry waited.

Draco looked up, and appeared to have made a decision. "I thought I was choosing the right side. The powerful side, you know? The side that could keep me and everyone I cared about safe. My Dad told me so, and when he went to Azkaban, I wanted to . . . I _had_ to protect my mum." He let out a slow breath and spoke to himself, hatred in his voice. "Didn't manage that too well, now did you, Draco?" He laughed humorlessly.

"After you left Hogwarts," Harry nudged softly, carefully, trying not to make Draco throw his walls up again. "What happened?"

"I . . . I Disapparated. Back home," Draco said, toying with a crust of toast on his plate. "Found my mum and told her what happened, but she didn't care, she was just happy I was alive. We started packing. I didn't even know where we were going to go, but she insisted . . . 'We have to bring these things, Draco,' she said. 'These are our family heritage. These are what is important.' So . . . we packed. And before we got a chance to leave-" Draco shuddered. "_They_ came. Dementors . . . more dementors than I've ever seen. There's this horrible hollow feeling you get . . . "

"Like you're sinking and never going to breathe again," Harry said, his voice low, toying with egg.

Draco swallowed and noded. He kept cutting his piece of egg into smaller and smaller bits. "Potter, I thought of you, and your stupid Patronus. I tried to do it, but I . . . I couldn't make one. I tried attacking, even, but they didn't care. They reached right through the Shield charm and . . . took my mum." He drew in a shaking breath. Draco saw it all too vividly; his mother, in the embrace of a Dementor, leaning in. She turned her face to Draco and whispered, "Run, Draco. I love you." Draco turned, and the Dementors were closing in . . . "They performed the Kiss." Draco took a deep breath. "And I ran."

Dumbledore's promise returned to Harry. _Even__if__I__say__to__run__and__save__yourself__, __you__will__obey__ . . ._ "Sometimes," Harry said, "Running is the bravest thing you can do." After a moment, he added, "And I'll teach you how to do a Patronus, if you like."

For the first time Harry had ever seen, Draco Malfoy was smiling-not in sadistic glee, or smirking in delight, but actually smiling. That must be the smile he gives to his mother, Harry though. Gave to his mother.

"Thanks, Potter."


	4. Chapter 4: Azkaban

Re: the rewrite: not THAT much is going to be changed. Some chapters are just going to be tweaked a bit, and tightened, and . . . un-purpled, because some of my prose is pretty damn purple. (Most of it is going to stay decidedly violet-tinged.) But some chapters (like this one!) are going to be largely unchanged.

Disclaimer: Plot = mine. Everything else = not.

Part Four: Azkaban

Deep within the stone bowels of Azkaban, Lucius Malfoy lay on a narrow, hard cot, eyes closed but not asleep. He was thinking of his family. Narcissa. Draco. His mouth formed their names, carefully, syllable by syllable, as if each were an incantation on his thin-lipped mouth, a spell to bring each to him, if just for a moment. A moment was all he would need, just to embrace Draco one last time. Narcissa had visited and told him, in tears, of the mission that he had been set. _Kill__Dumbledore__._ Draco was just a child, not yet come of age. The Dementors-those who had felt the sadness they fed on here was enough, and had not joined the Dark Lord-had swarmed outside his room that night, feasting on his fear and misery. Draco would die, and it would be his own fault. Months had passed, and no news came, but Lucius knew is was merely a matter of time. This was to be his punishment. This, he knew, was the real torment.

There came a knock at his door, and a man came in. "Coleen Winterburn here to visit you, Malfoy," a curt Auror said, ushering in a small woman wearing her hair in a sort of pompadour.

Malfoy took a deep breath. "Yes. Shut the door, please."

The door swung shut with a bang that sent a rat scuttling to the floor. Lucius Malfoy knew an Imperius when he saw it. The Aurors were getting sloppy, or they were on the take in one way or another from the Dark Lord. He also knew this particular Animagi.

"Peter Pettigrew," Lucius said, standing. "Do come out. It's quite rude to hide under my bed."

The rat scuttled out and grew, slowly and repulsively, into a man that still resembled a rat. "L-L-Lucius," he stuttered. "How good to see you alive and well."

"Who's this?" Lucius demanded, gesturing to the woman who stood still before them.

"Some Muggle or other," he replied. He giggled. "Made her carry me in. Dementors didn't even peep. Aurors didn't bother to look for me in her hair."

"Genius," Lucius said, sounding bored.

Peter cleared his throat, and his voice was low. "I-I have some bad news for you, Lucius."

"And what would that be." He sat on the bed, prepared to be bored by Pettigrew's in-depth description of some other form of trite torture of Muggles.

"Your family."

Lucius did not move, did not make a single movement of acknowledgement. Even when Harry Potter had set his house-elf free, he had reacted with fury, rage-but this was different. He could afford to be angry about Dobby, since he was almost useless, and not too valuable. His family . . . his family was different.

"Your son, Draco, failed in his mission. Severus Snape killed Dumbledore not two weeks ago"

Lucius expelled a breath slowly, and took another, as if he were sipping the air for poisons. "Did he die a noble death?"

"He . . . he did not die completing his mission. He ran from Hogwarts with Severus, and Disapparated once off the grounds." He giggled. "We sent Dementors to your estate."

So this is how it feels, Lucius mused, detached. This is what it is like-

"Dememtors are, ah, unreliable for accuracy, so your wife-"

"My wife," he murmured lightly, turning the phrase over. Narcissa, his mind said. My darling, my love, my Narcissa.

"Your wife got in their way."

For all the times I've kissed you, Narcissa, Malfoy thought, his mind whittled to a pinpoint, carefully wording his prayer. For every time I've kissed you, this is your payment.

"She was given the Kiss. Draco-"

My son. My only child.

"Draco, it appears, must be dead, though there is no clear account of it. He did not fight them off, at any rate."

My wife and my son, dead for this. A belief, an idea. The machinations of a brain. The struggle. One must cull from the herd or risk infiltration, risk disloyalty, risk everything. This was the argument Lucius was meant to use. This was the argument Lucius was meant to accept. This was the Dark Lord's wish: _all__is__as__it__should__be__, __Lucius__; __your__wife__and__son__are__dead__, __and__all__is__as__it__should__be__._ Lucius touched his Dark Mark gingerly, still black on his arm. A sign to be feared, even by those who wore it.

"Is that all, Pettigrew?"

Rat though he was, Peter was taken aback. Lucius appeared unaffected, uncaring, unemotional at the death of his wife and son.

Lucius repeated himself. "Is that all, Pettigrew?"

"Y-y-yes," he stuttered.

"Send the Severus my regards." Lucius lay back down and closed his eyes.

Peter, shocked, transformed back and left, still undetected on, on the Imperiused Colleen Wintergreen. Even as she left, Dementors were rushing downstairs.

There was a feast on the floors below for the Dementors. They seethed around the door to Lucius' cell, furious to get closer. Mouths open wide, they drank of Lucius Malfoy.

And, alone there, Lucius Malfoy began forming a plan. This was all; everything gone. Everyone who mattered dead. It was time, Lucius thought. He had hope; now, there was none. Best to end it cleanly.

The aurors couldn't understand how he had worried the bars away from the window and squeezed his gaunt frame through the gap. Those who watched him fall thought, for a moment, that he was flying. The jagged rocks around the island knew better.


	5. Chapter 5: Potter's Lessons

Disclaimer: Plot = mine. Everything else = not.

Part Five: Potter's lessons

By late afternoon, Draco Malfoy could produce a substantial amount of mist, though not quite a fully-formed Patronus. They longed to leave the Dursley house, but Snape forebode it, citing that the magical protection did not extend beyond the threshold of the home.

Draco swore and waved his wand once again; nothing happened. His anger, clearly, got in the way of his happy thoughts. Harry knew this, but bit his tongue. Criticizing Draco Malfoy would not be wise after they had forged such a new, tenuous bond.

"This can't be the right charm. It's not working," Draco whined.

Harry ignored him and concentrated on Ginny. _"__Expecto __Patronum_," Harry enunciated, proving his point. Gliding forth with ease, the stag emerged from Harry's wand. "It's the right incantation, Draco. You're not focusing on happy thoughts."

"Like what, Potter?" Draco demanded. "What happy thoughts?"

"That time you smashed my nose in, for instance." Harry touched his nose. "That hurt."

Draco closed his eyes and muttered the spell again, to no effect. Apparently there was more to Draco than sadistic glee.

Harry mused. "Pansy Parkinson?"

Draco replied with a snort.

"Er . . . I dunno," Harry said. "Maybe something to do with your mum or your dad."

Draco shut his eyes again and took a deep breath. _"__Expecto__ Patronum_."

A huge, silvery feline emerged from Draco's wand. The roundness to the ear and the subtle muscle structure told that it was a panther, a silent, deadly killer. It was sly and ruthless. It was Malfoy's Patronus and, as surprised as Harry was at its power, its perfection, its form made perfect sense. In awe, Draco knelt to touch it, and his fingers touched the panther's head before it dissolved into glittering dust.

Harry whistled.

Draco was smiling, but wryly. "A pussycat? Some Slytherin I am. Not all _evil__,_ I suppose." He shook his wand. "I wish it were a snake. Something properly frightening."

"Snakes aren't all bad," Harry retorted. "I remember one day, at the zoo, I set a snake free by making the glass disappear. Scared Dudley witless."

"I remember that one," Draco replied slowly, as if it were a joke he had heard, or a party he had been to.

Harry grinned. "A nice sort of revenge, if you ask me."

Draco tossed his head and declared, his voice lofty, "If it had been up to me, I would have put the Cruciatus Curse on him the moment I got home from my fourth year. That would put the fear of magic into that idiot Muggle."

Is Draco _defending_ me? Harry wondered. "Yeah, then I could have gone straight to Azkaban."

Draco sneered, but there was humor behind it, not malice. "But you're the great and mighty Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One. You could slip out of there and thumb your nose at the Dementors on the way out."

Harry laughed. "As much as the _Prophet_ would like to make me invincible-as much as _I_ would like to be invincible-I've never wanted those names. They're insulting."

"Insulting?" Draco exclaimed with scorn. "They're saying that you're amazing, the most powerful-" he spluttered, "That you could defeat V . . . the Dark Lord!"

"Yeah, and I haven't done it yet, have I?" Harry sighed. "And _you_ know now that it wasn't even _me_ who beat him the first time." He flipped up his hair to display his scar. "It was my mum." He smiled ruefully and let the hair fall. "That's just a souvenir of being the son of people who angered Voldemort, not a mark of heroism or strength. They're putting me up to something I might not be able to do."

Malfoy looked away at the name, and began rubbing his arm where his Dark Mark had to be, as if it pained him.

"Even that protection is gone," Harry added. "Remember?" The resurrection of Lord Voldemort, the death of Cedric Diggory, played out in miniature in Harry's mind. "Now it's just us against . . . well, everything."

"Once again, Potter, you underestimate the help that others can give you," a low voice said behind them. Both boys whirled, wands out, to see Snape at the door.

"The Dursleys?" Harry asked, knowing at least Petunia was home.

"All taking short naps."

Both boys relaxed slightly. Harry watched Snape like a hawk, waiting for some sort of tell, hoping for some sign-some flicker in his eyes, anything-but found his dark eyes still as unreadable as a blank chalkboard.

Snape turned to Draco. "I trust Harry has shown you the Pensieve and begun to acquaint you with the plan?"

"Yes," Draco said, a touch of sullenness suffusing his voice. "Though I don't see why-"

"Very good," Snape interrupted. He turned to Harry. "I will need more of your hair, Potter. For the polyjuice."

"Oh-yeah." He ran his hands through the mess of hair, and pointed a severing charm at the most errant lock. He dropped it into Snape's extended hand, who withdrew a silver flask from his cloak and dropped the whole lock in. _Doing __it __right __in __front __of __me__,_ Harry thought. _Not __saving __any __for __any__-__nefarious __purposes__._ Harry didn't even know another use for hair, off the top of his head. He wondered if Snape understood how closely he was watching. Snape handed the flask to Draco.

"Drink it regularly," Snape instructed, his tone clipped and businesslike. "Get used to playing Harry. Harry, wear your cloak when he is transformed and continue to help him construct his disguise. It will not be enough to just look like you." He turned his head and his eyes unfocused, as if he were straining to listen to some far-off music that only he could hear. "I must be gone. I am already missed." And with that, he shut the door behind him and was gone.

Harry snorted and tried, fruitlessly, to blend the severed lock into the rest of his mussed hair but failed.

Draco muttered under his breath, "Bloody arrogant, if you ask me. Giving us orders like that."

Harry smiled. Draco had just said _us__._ "You'll get used to it. Being Harry Potter is a thankless job."

It took a while to school Draco in the finer points of Ron and Hermione and how to abandon the haughty grace that permeated his movements even in Harry's body. Still, within a week, Draco was beginning to fool even Harry. Snape was mostly absent, leaving Harry to teach Draco freely, and allowing what seemed to be a sort of alliance to grow between them. Harry was hesitant to call it friendship, after so many years of animosity. Draco angered easily, and became curt when Harry tried to help him when he was clearly having trouble, which only exasperated both of them. Harry learned to tolerate it, and remain calm even if Draco resorted to frustrated cursing. Draco now never touched upon Harry's sensitive subjects, after seeing Harry's memories. He particularly avoided Sirius and Dumbledore, and Harry appreciated the level of consideration it took on his behalf.

Snape, for his part, disappeared periodically without explanation and returned to mock Harry and, surprisingly, Draco as well. Draco seemed as shocked as Harry by this turn of heart on Snape's part, but Harry secretly harbored the opinion that it was due to Draco's transformation. The hardest part was getting Draco to switch hands. Draco was left-handed, and changing to Harry's right-handed wand-wielding and writing proved to be quite difficult. Still, the Polyjuice eased this. Most of what they did was no form of magic, strictly speaking.

One morning, Harry and Draco were discussing Harry's favorite foods. Harry was under the Invisibility Cloak, as Draco was Polyjuiced into Harry, standing on one leg, than the other, to gain more fine motor control. Hedwig swooped through the window and landed perfectly on Draco's outstretched arm. Hedwig could tell Draco apart from Harry at first, but was slowly being confused by the two identical bodies and postures. That, Harry knew, was the best sign that it was working, despite the twinge it gave him. Harry, invisible, unrolled the scroll on her leg, and opened the note.

"It's from Hermione! She and Ron are . . . oh _no__,_" he said, reading on, dreading Snape's reaction.

"What?" Draco said, sounding worried, speaking to the air slightly to Harry's left. Harry removed the cloak from his hand and thrust the note out into the air, and an identical hand plucked it up. Draco read:

Dear Harry,  
Well, I hope you're ready to start in our new adventures. Ron thinks, and I agree, that we should start off on our surest lead. I hope you still have that special necklace you got last year; we'll need it. We think we know the secret admirer who gave it to you. I think that person had a black dog that that person loved like a brother. I've done a lot of research, so I'm fairly sure.  
Should we ask the Birds for help? I think we should at least go to their house. Where are they living now?  
There's also a grim old place I think we should visit. I hear it's got lots of fascinating stuff we can look at to help us find what we're looking for.  
We'll see you on your birthday, and start our journey then, just so you can get as much help as you can from where you live now.  
Much love,  
Hermione  
P.S. Harry, this is Ron-why no note? Hedwig flew to us, but no letter from you? Got us all excited for no good reason, you git. We were worried. Write back. Be careful. RW.

Draco looked up and shrugged. "Some of this makes sense. New adventures is obvious. The locket is what she's talking about. But the black dog?" He snorted. "How like Granger, not to explain what she's talking about."

"The _Black_ dog," Harry said, correcting the emphasis. He couldn't prevent his voice from cracking. "Sirius." He didn't even bother to correct Draco's condescension toward Hermione.

Draco already knew of the locket, the note, and Snape's Regulus theory. "So Hermione and Snape agree."

"For once. And of course, Hermione couldn't resist mentioning that she has read a great lot of books on everything," Harry added, pointing to Hermione's curvy script.

"The Birds, though?" Draco asked.

"My guess is the Order. And the 'grim old place'-well, that's a long story." When Harry paused, Draco arched an eyebrow, full of curiosity, still staring slightly to Harry's left. Draco, in Harry's body, making such a Malfoy expression, was a dead giveaway. Harry sighed; there was still a lot of work to be done on Draco's mannerisms. "I am now the proud owner of the Black household."

Draco whistled appreciatively. "Willed to you, eh?" Draco smiled. "Half the purebloods can't wait til the older ones get killed off or die. The old houses are full of treasures that could sell for a load of Galleons, particularly now."

"Yeah," Harry replied quietly, glad he was invisible.

They both appreciated the sunlight for a moment, and Harry was lost in morose thoughts of Sirius when Snape flew in on a broomstick, almost falling off. "Potter," he said, calm, recovering with grace from his stumble. "What's this? _Accio __note__._" The note flew from Draco's hand into Snape's, and he skimmed it. Snape sneered. Harry thought he looked particularly irritable today. "How adorable. Communicating, as I expressly told you _not_ to, with your dear friends, while your neglect your duties in training the doppleganger that will most likely save your life. Touching, Potter, truly touching to see that, once again, my efforts are wasted on you." Snape let the note fall to the ground, and, with a wave of his wand, set it on fire. Once it was burned to ash, Snape looked up to Draco, eyes hard and voice cold. "Where is Draco?"

"Right here, sir," Draco replied.

Harry took off the Invisibility Cloak wordlessly.

"Ah. Potter. The real one, I presume."

"Yeah," Harry replied, folding the cloak under his arm.

"The postscript said, Sir," Draco began, "that there was no letter-"

Snape's eyes didn't budge from the real Harry's face. "Ah, but your filthy little owl ran to them, didn't it?"

Harry felt his face tighten with anger. "I didn't send her," he said, voice level.

"Then who did, Potter?"

Draco cleared his throat. "Actually, sir, I did."

Snape's eyes flicked back and forth from the two identical boys. "Why?"

With no small measure of smug defiance, Draco said, "I thought it's what Harry might do."

Snape stood in unreadable silence for a moment, then smirked. "Your training is coming along well, Draco. You are beginning to be as impudent and foolish as Potter himself." He uncrossed his arms. "Nevertheless, I must take Harry from you now."

"Now?" they both asked incredulously.

"Did you think you could stay here forever?" Snape asked archly.

"The protection expires when he turns seventeen," Draco interjected.

Snape turned a cold eye on Draco's Harry-body and lifted his upper lip in disgust. "Yes. And I would like both of you to be gone when it does."

"Why?" It was Harry's turn to fall under the gaze of the displeased ex-Professor.

"Because this place will be ravaged by _Death __Eaters_-" He took the time to enunciate slowly, as if they were stupid and had perhaps never heard of them before, "if there is anyone who even vaguely resembles Harry Potter in that house when Dumbledore's protection evaporates."

"So?" Draco said. "Set a trap."

"Draco!" Harry snapped. "The Dursleys!"

Draco turned to Harry, scorn in his voice. "Yes, they've done so very much for you. They deserve your gratitude and protection." Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. "They deserve what they would get."

"No," Harry growled, violent force behind his words. His hand made a chopping motion for emphasis. "No one deserves what the Death Eaters do. _You__,_ of all people, should know that."

Harry and Draco glared at each other, two identical pairs of green eyes boring holes in each other's skulls.

"As much as I hate to interrupt this pointless quarrel, I feel I must," Snape declared, stepping between them. "Neither of you will be here on that date. Draco will leave when your . . . _friends_ . . . arrive, and they will go on their little hunt for the Horcruxes. I have carefully fed Hermione Granger with a menagerie of pointers that will allow even her and that dull-witted Weasley to find Regulus' locket while you and I, Potter, will move for the others."

"Others?" Harry asked uncertainly. "I . . . We haven't got any-"

"Do you think I've been doing as little as you, Potter?" Snape shot back, clipping his words. "I have been working tirelessly to find further information on our goals. Now, however, I must begin mapping plans to retrieve the other Horcruxes, and I must begin _your_ training, Potter, so these plans can be accomplished."

Harry's heart sank. Further training with Snape. Double Potions-or Defense Against the Dark Arts-for as long as Snape felt that he was inadequate. Voldemort might be elected Minister of Magic first. Harry tried, without success, to keep the glumness out of his voice. "When do we leave?"

He ignored the question. "Draco, your wand, please." Draco obediently placed it in Snape's outstretched hand. Snape muttered over it for a while, and suddenly it was a precise duplicate for Harry's. "I trust the glasses I transfigured for you are adequate, Draco?"

Draco adjusted the glasses-duplicates of Harry's-on his face. "Yeah," he said.

"When do we leave?" Harry asked again, more insistent.

"Now." Snape brandished his wand like a weapon. "You have your cloak?"

"Yeah, but-" Harry was cut short when Snape placed one hand firmly across his shoulders and made a graceful, swirling turn, Disapparating.

Draco was left gaping and alone. He rubbed his-Harry's-head, and made a face. "Yeah, I'll be fine, thanks for asking," he muttered.


	6. Chapter 6: A Grim Old Place

The Poetic Disclaimer:

_All__you__see__is__JK__Rowling__'__s_

_Except__this__lovely__plot_

_And__if__you__steal__either__for__profit_

_I__will__have__you__shot__._

...

Part Seven: A Grim Old Place

Harry started coughing. They had Apparated in what had to be the single dustiest room Harry had ever seen. If Aunt Petunia was here, Harry thought wryly, she would have a heart attack. Once Harry had cleared his lungs, he looked around. It was a musty garret, full of sinister junk that must have once looked quite evil, but now merely appeared broken or mournfully cast aside. Even a gargoyle, tipped to his side and leaning on a box of moth-eaten robes, looked depressed. There would be no more gnashing of teeth and rending of flesh for him.

"This way, Potter," Snape commanded, leaving a swirling wake of dust after his robes. Harry followed, trying not to breathe in. Snape seemed to be making no pains to be silent, but Harry thought sneezing too many times in succession might be a dead giveaway to anyone or -thing that might be guarding . . . wherever they were.

Descending the stairs was no better. Harry had begun to wheeze, and could barely see, since his eyes were watering. He began to anger. If this was Snape's idea of punishment, Harry thought it impractical and idiotic. Harry had been tolerating Snape's vindictive, offensive nature for a week, and Snape repaid him with sheer pettiness?

Harry could only assume that Snape had heard this thought-he wasn't going out of his way to shield it-and, reacting, he whirled around, kicking up further dust. Harry couldn't stopper his nose quickly enough. He let out a succession of sneezes that Harry suspected made Snape even more impatient.

Snape brandished his wand, looking bored. He muttered what Harry recognized as the Bubble-Head Charm and rapped Harry sharply with his wand, and Harry sucked in a deep breath of the clean air. "Thank you, sir," Harry said evenly and clearly as he could. Snape did not respond. Instead, he turned once more and began sweeping down the hallway, trailed by more dust clouds.

With his eyes cleared of tears, Harry could now see a place that looked familiar. It appeared to be-Harry gasped. "This is Grimmauld Place!"

Snape looked over his shoulder, smirking. "What a deduction, Potter. I expect you'll pass your N.E.W.T.s yet."

"But . . . " Harry left his sentence unfinished.

Snape completed it for him. "This is Sirius' house?" he asked mockingly. "No, Potter. This is _your_ house. Though, since you are neither a Black nor a Pureblood, I believe Sirius' mother might be slightly, ah, _perturbed_ at this particular line of succession." Snape began walking.

The screaming portrait on the wall. Harry snorted and followed Snape once more. "Yeah, 'cause Bellatrix Lestrange is such a lovely homemaker."

Snape's voice was still cold. "For once, Potter, you and I agree completely."

They proceeded in silence down another set of stairs toward a drawing room. Harry was bombarded by memories-Sirius, walking with him down a hallway; Sirius, eating dinner with the Order and the Weasleys; Sirius, _alive_ . . .

"Don't dwell on it, Potter," Snape said abruptly, interrupting Harry's malaise as if it were in danger of infecting him. "We have more urgent concerns at hand." He looked at the door that they had stopped in front of, and pushed it open with an unnerving squeal of an unoiled door hinge.

It was all Harry could do to to prevent himself from hexing Snape, talking about Sirius as if he were some sort of illness that Madame Pomfrey could mend with a quick charm and some Skele-gro. Harry ground his teeth and entered the room. Harry recognized it vaguely; it was the room that they had all helped clear of Dark items two years ago. Sirius, getting Doxies out of the curtains; Sirius, finding a nest of dead Puffskeins in the couch. This was worse than a ghost. Harry was being haunted by a memory, by his own longing . . .

Snape opened a cabinet, once again dirty and covered with dust. He removed from it something that looked familiar, something fairly harmless. It was the locket that no-one had been able to open or remove, a locket with an _S_ engraved on it-and Harry reeled in sudden recognition.

"The locket. Regulus Black-"

"Indeed," Snape replied. "The locket that you and Dumbledore should have returned with." Snape held it up and watched it glitter in the sunlight that sluggishly leaked through the dirty windows. Dust motes fell in the beam of light, and Harry felt dizzy.

"It was there all along. We were cleaning-we tried to open it-" Harry slapped his palm against his forehead. "We had it all along!"

"No need for theatrics, Potter."

"But we could have-"

"But you didn't _know_," Snape retorted, his tone more curt than his words. "Self-abasement is a waste of time, and will not gain my pity."

Harry swallowed and nodded, swaying a bit. "Well . . . let's get to it, then . . . how should we-"

"Destroy it?" Snape asked. "That is not so easy."

"Hey," Harry said, his wits returning. "Didn't you say that Hermione and Ron and Draco are going to come for this one?"

"Exactly," Snape said. "We are merely checking on it." Snape returned it to the cupboard. "No tricks from the Black house that might prove lethal."

"How can they destroy it? . . . Sir."

Snape shut the cupboard door. "They don't have to."

Harry wasn't sure he heard correctly. "What?"

"Regulus has already done that, Potter. This is meant to keep them busy."

"Snape . . ."

"Later," Snape ordered, pivoting. "We have more important work to do_. _You are a pathetic fighter, and must learn how to handle yourself in combat."

Harry brandished his wand, but his heart wasn't in it. This felt to him like Dueling Club more than anything else. Harry had fought and lost miserably against worse, much worse. He should be furious, Harry realized. Snape was planning to lead his friends on a dead-end chase, and in the meantime Harry was going to receive lessons. Harry realized he should be angry, or at least feel steeled against something. There should be something there for him to quiet, something there for him to hide from the Legillimency that he knew was coming, but he felt no fire in him, no temper. He felt cold and empty and alone. They were in Sirius' house, and it was just that, a house. Sirius was dead. Dumbledore was dead. His friends would come here and find nothing but the couch full of dead Puffskiens and an soulless Horcrux.

_"__Legillimens__,"_ Snape hissed.

In Snape's mind, an image blossomed: a long hall, doors on each side, all locked. At the end a boy sat, limp, head on his knees, scar barely visible in the dip of his robes from one knee to the next. Snape approached.

The boy's head rolled back, corpselike, and Snape observed the nose was flattened to two slits. The eyes were red. The Dark Lord's face on Harry's body. Snape stared, unsure, wand and mind at the ready. But even then, slowly, the boy faded, leaving nothing but a hallway of rooms. Every door was locked.

Snape emerged from his trance, and Harry had not moved. For the first time, he began to worry for the scarred child before him.

"Fine," Snape said with grudging respect. "You understand the fundamentals of Occlumency."

Harry did not respond.

They dueled for a bit longer, but Harry's heart wasn't in it, and Snape could tell. He became increasingly frustrated with the ease with which he batted away Harry's charms. After almost an hour of pointless spellcasting, Snape looked as if he were about ready to set Harry's jeans on fire just to interest him in the exercise. Instead, he merely spoke, his tone icy. "If I cannot interest you in fighting, perhaps I can encourage you to quit wasting my time. Go find a room, Potter. Make it comfortable for yourself. I have obtained books for your studies that you can ruminate on in my absence." He conjured a sachel that slumped heavily at Harry's feet. "And no matter how _sentimental_ you become, kindly refrain from toying with anything that you do not understand. It may kill you, and I have neither the time nor patience to heal you."

Snape heard the door creak open behind him, and pushed up the sleeves of his robes. There was quite a bit of work to do in this room alone. This accursed house was a veritable minefield of Dark magic, and, though it would serve brilliantly as a training ground for Harry, the lucky but inept child savior, there were still some precautions to take that he had not yet had the opportunity to attend to.

Harry watched Snape for a moment, and looked at his bare arms. They were pale with thin, wiry muscles and-scars. Scars criscrossed violently on both arms, echoing some past attack. "Sir?"

Snape paused. His voice was frosty. "What, Potter."

"What happened? To your-"

"Yes, that would be the doing of your dear friend Buckbeak, the Hippogriff." Snape glared over his shoulder.

Harry looked at the scars a moment longer and felt a flash of pain on his own arms, a tearing of skin. Snape killed Dumbledore that night and ran-Buckbeak tore at him-a boy followed Snape, screaming curses, brilliant green eyes blazing-Harry realized the boy was himself. _But__that__'__s__now__how__it__happened__,_ Harry thought. _That__'__s__not__what__I__saw_. He shook his head, trying to dispel the strange pain of claws in his flesh, and left the room.


	7. Chapter 7: Reddere Incanto

The Poetic Disclaimer:

All you see is JK Rowling's  
Except this lovely plot  
And if you steal either for profit  
I will have you shot.

...

Chapter 7: Reddere Incanto

The room that Harry and Ron had shared was lonely with only Harry sleeping there. Still, he did not have much time to miss Ron. Every day, Snape demanded that he rise at six AM, and did not let him sleep until well after sunset. They discovered that Harry's sudden talent at Occlumency was a fluke. Slowly, though, he became more talented, and by the end of the week, he could almost block Snape's Legillimency reliably. His sudden and drastic improvement over what he had been capable of two years ago clearly disturbed Snape, but he never spoke of it, merely gave monosyllabic voice to his grudging satisfaction.

The dueling, however, was more difficult. Snape was taller by a few inches, more powerful, and just as agile as Harry. It didn't help that he could feint and sneak in ways that Harry had never even considered.

"On your toes, Potter!" Snape shouted, firing a hex at Harry.

Harry leapt nimbly out of the way, and parried, using a hasty Reflecting Charm to fire it back at Snape.

"No!" Snape shouted, sounding furious, unfazed by the hex that flew into the wall just to his left. "The point of using a Reflecting Charm is to fire your opponent's spell back at him! You must _aim_ and _shape_ the spell!"

Harry considered a response, but kept his anger in check. "I almost hit you," Harry said.

"Almost will not save you from Bellatrix Lestrange," Snape replied. "Do it again. Correctly, this time."

"_Reddere__Incanto__,_" Harry uttered with a chopping motion of his wand, and a transparent barrier appeared before Harry. Even from behind it, Harry could tell that it was warped.

Snape's words were clipped but not cruel. "Come around, Potter." Harry stepped around the edge and found himself facing a mirror instead of the transparent barrier. "Here, here, and here," Snape pointed, "are weak points in the barrier." Snape flicked off three Body-Bind hexes, and each burrowed through the dipping thin points of the mirror wall, searing through to the other side and fizzling out when they found no target. "Do you understand why they can get through the wall?"

"Er . . ." Harry came up blank. "Because it's weak there?"

"No. Observe." Snape dispelled Harry's wall and cast his own small one, curved sharply inward. "I cast a hex into the curved wall-" He did so, "-and watch." The hex bounced back and forth frantically, making a piercing _ping_ noise on each impact, each bounce leaving a dent. One dent became so deep that, with a sizzling noise, the hex burned through. "Your wall is not impervious."

"That happens in every dent?"

"Yes. So do it again, Potter," Snape commanded, stepping back. "We will practice until I get a wall out of you that I cannot burn through. Then you must learn how to aim."

Harry looked at the clock hopelessly. It was already ten o'clock and, though Snape seemed tireless, Harry was already exhausted from a week of long days. With a yawn, Harry cast the wall again. The spell always wanted to curl forward and inward on itself, and it was a fight to keep it pulled backward around him in a convex shape, which was the most defensive position for it to be cast in. Harry's wand arm was wrenched back over his shoulder, pulling at the edges. Snape fired jinx after jinx, and each rebounded.. Harry's arm shook with the effort, but the wall was smooth and perfectly concave around him.

"You seem to have mastered shaping the spell," Snape said finally after the resounding _ping_ of his Disarming Charm burned yet another pockmark in the wall behind him. "Now we will attempt to actually _return_ the spells, which is the primary power of the wall." Snape cast the mirror. "You can move it if you are careful. Watch." Snape's immaculate surface suddenly rippled. The edges angled. It deformed into a perfect sphere, morphing then into a box. The box unfolded and it became a flat wall again. "This form is best for simply reflecting the spells, since hitting a flat surface reflects it perfectly. Angles can be more difficult, as the spells can have a mind of their own."

"A . . . A mind?"  
"Are you surprised, Potter?" Snape asked, amused at Harry's naivete. "Do recall that this is magic, not physics. If it were, your dents would make little difference. The spell _wants_ to hit you, and thus it can burn through."

"I . . . never . . ." Harry tried again to suppress a yawn.

"Do I bore you, Potter?"

"No, it's just-"

"You think I have been overworking you." The wall vanished, and Snape's voice regained another measure of frost. "Let me tell you now, Potter, you know nothing of being overworked."

Harry started to speak, but what poured out felt alien, wrong. "Dumbledore's the one who should be doing this . . . and I'm keeping up appearances with the Dark Lord, doing his bidding, living two lives, teaching this spoiled . . ." Harry murmured without thinking.

Snape whirled and Harry felt a part of his mind shut off. "What did you just say?" He sounded furious; his breath came quickly.

"I . . . I don't-"

"If you understand one thing, understand this: keep out of my mind." Snape raised his wand. "Unless you enjoy the Cruciatus and Imperius curses so much that you would care to incur my wrath further."

Harry began to get angry. "I didn't _do_ anything! Not on purpose!"

"Perhaps you didn't, Potter." Snape backed down a fraction of an inch. "Perhaps you simply have a certain leakage of the Dark Lord's powers into your own."

"Leakage, yeah," Harry agreed. Anything to get Snape to back down. "I am a Parselmouth and all."

"Your friendships with snakes are the least of my worries, Potter." Snape lifted his upper lip in contempt. "Keep your mind shut or I will shut it for you." With that threat, Snape swept out of the room. Harry collapsed, exhausted, into a nearby chair. It was old and musty, but comfortable enough. He meant to keep practicing the reflecting charm, but his eyelids were so heavy. Within moments, he was asleep.

Harry slept peacefully for a half-hour until a sharp _crack_ split the air. Harry stirred, but did not wake.

"Harry Potter, sir," whispered a small, squeaky voice.

"Filthy blood traitor, sir," snarled another mockingly.

"You will not speak so of Harry Potter!"

The sounds of fighting floated through the room like percussive music. Two brawling house elves tumbled into Harry's legs. Harry started, fumbling with his wand. "Whasat?" he mumbled, fixing his glasses on his nose. His vision resolved itself onto the fighting house-elves-Dobby and Kreacher.

"Stop that, both of you!" he commanded. Kreacher looked absolutely crazed, fist inches from hitting Dobby squarely in his squashed-tomato nose. Dobby was not so bound to Harry's command, however; he got in one last hit into Kreacher's wrinkled, horrible face, and scrambled out from beneath Kreacher.

"I am sorry, sir, so sorry, I have not obeyed, I must-" Dobby cried, rushing around, searching for something to punish himself with. He picked up a candelabra and was about to thrust his face into the flames when Harry sharply shouted his name.

"Dobby, I forbid you to punish yourself."

Dobby's eyes opened wide, and he set down the candelabra carefully and joined Kreacher at Harry's feet.

"Harry Potter, sir, we are sorry, but we have lost the Malfoy boy, sir," Dobby said, sounding dejected.

"Terrible, terrible, he is dead," Kreacher moaned, burying his face in his long-fingered hands. "Beautiful pureblood dying off, all dying . . ." he sobbed.

"Er-right." Harry didn't bother to correct them; the less people who knew about the ruse, the better. If he was honest with himself, he had forgotten that he had given the order for them to tail Draco last year. It seemed so long ago. "Hey, what's going on at Hogwarts now?"  
"Oh, it is very sad, very sad indeed," Dobby replied, shaking his head. "Of course we house-elves are permitted to remain, but . . . they is closing the school, Harry Potter."

"Breeding grounds for Mudbloods and Halfbreeds," Kreacher muttered in what he surely thought was a quiet voice. Dobby shot him a murderous glare.

"Well, we expected that," Harry said, relaxing back into the chair.

"Harry Potter, we come to be of service. We were told by Headmistress Miss McGonagall-"

"-Muggle-loving harpy-"

"-Headmistress Miss McGonagall," Dobby continued, louder, "that we were released specifically to help you, since the other house-elves would maintain the castle."

Help me, Harry mused. Immediately, he thought of Snape. There was so much he wanted to know. An idea floated across his mind-a tiny vial of clear liquid. But Snape would surely know what was going on, he would know, and then he would turn on Harry . . . unless he was incapable of remembering what had happened. It was like the ideas were coming from an entirely new mind. Harry leapt at the chance.

"Dobby-can you nick me some Veritaserum, and a book on Memory Charms?"

"Oh yes, Harry Potter, sir! Yes indeed!" Dobby replied, joyful to be of help.

"Just don't return when there's-anyone around but Kreacher," Harry added quickly. "And don't tell anyone who or why."

"Yes, Harry Potter! Of course!" Dobby disapperared with another sharp _crack__._

"As for you, Kreacher," Harry began, and Kreacher glared at him. "You need to be in this house. Ron, Hermione, and-um-someone else are going to come through this house. You have to obey Ron and Hermione. Now this other person-this other person is going to look like me, but it's just Polyjuice Potion."

"Stupid master thinks Kreacher can't see through such simple disguises," Kreacher muttered. "Stupid mater doesn't understand, no, not at all, not like a Pureblood would."

"Will you be able to tell who it is underneath the Polyjuice potion?" Harry asked, ignoring the insult.

Kreacher cackled unpleasantly. "We house-elves are magic, yes, but we are not _that_ powerfully magical. We can see _that_ potion is used, but not _who_ uses potion." Kreacher looked back down and began to snarl to Harry's feet, "Demanding master. Asks so much of us, yes, but does not thank us, ever."

"You wouldn't care if I did thank you, Kreacher. Now I want you to obey the person who comes with Ron and Hermione, Polyjuiced as me," Harry asked. "And-Kreacher-start cleaning this house again, please. No tricks, nothing, just get the dust off of the shelves and straighten up, repair those holes in the wall if you can, make it look like we were never here. Do not use or activate anything, don't set any booby traps for Ron, Hermione, or me. In fact, warn us if you sense in any way that we are in danger. Keep us safe."

Kreacher looked up, eyes narrowed in hatred. "Is that all . . Master?" he growled, teeth gritted.

"I think so, Kreacher. Don't do anything I wouldn't tell you to do."

Kreacher looked like he was about to spit on Harry, but instead he disappeared with a _crack_ that Harry could have sworn sounded angrier than normal.

Harry sighed and put out the candles with a wave of his wand. He dragged himself to his bed and slept the rest of the night in peace.


	8. Chapter 8: The Last Longbottom

The Poetic Disclaimer:

All you see is JK Rowling's

Except this lovely plot

And if you steal either for profit

I will have you shot.

...

Chapter 8: The Last Longbottom

Neville Longbottom swallowed the lukewarm potato salad that he had been chewing for the past few minutes. Family reunions always found Neville here, permanently fixed to the food table, helping younger cousins to clandestine cookies and helping his great-aunts discern the difference between broccoli gelatin and fruit salad. Natrually, he nibbled most of the day, when his Grandmother wasn't looking. The reunion was almost entirely female, his grandmother presiding over a roost of aunts, nieces, cousins, and in-laws. Even the return of Voldemort left Neville's grandmother unfazed, though it lowered the attendance. Neville was particularly popular this year due to his association with Harry Potter.

"Harry's great," Neville declared to his wide-eyed nephew. "Very brave. His best friend, Hermione, put me in a full body-bind, she did. That won us the house cup that year. Dumbledore even called _me_ brave."

The child allowed crumbs to collect on the front of clothes out of sheer awe. "Wha . . . what if You-Know-Who came back? Would you beat him up?"

Neville giggled nervously. "No, oh no, I'm not nearly good enough at magic for that . . . I like Herbology-"

"I'd beat 'im up. Him and his Deaf Eebers," the child said, pantomiming the violent and bloody destruction of You-Know-Who. "Pow!" The child ran off, beating imaginary Dark wizards off with a stick.

"Not quite like that, though," Neville murmured to himself, waving a fly away from the dish of melting gelatin. "In fact, 's not like that at all."

"What're you muttering about, boy?" a booming voice asked. Neville winced. His Great-Uncle Algie.

The red-faced man strode up to Neville and slapped him on the back, knocking the wind out of Neville. "Getting tall, m'boy," he said. "Growing up! Into the shoes of your father! So, you got your eye on any girls, Neville?" Algie winked and shot off a laugh that hurt Neville's ears.

"Not really, no . . ." Neville reported meekly, feeling very small despite the fact that he was taller than Algie by a few inches and slimmer by a few feet.

"No girls? You're, eh . . . " Algie leaned close and asked in a stage whisper, moving only one side of his mouth, "You're not one of them _fairies__,_ are you?"

Neville gaped. "Wha . . ."

"It's quite all right, Neville! We're an advanced wizarding family!" he declared. "We can accept all stripes!" He fired off another laugh, his rotund girth shaking, and sighted someone else to torment. "Keep standing tall, there, m'boy, wear that Longbottom name with pride!"

Neville stared at his shoes. His family thought he was _gay__._ This could hardly get worse. "I . . . I don't think it's any of your business," he called after Algie weakly who, naturally, did not hear. No, actually, Neville decided, this could not get worse, even if his Great-Aunt Enid returned to pinch his cheeks for the third time in the past hour. Now that he thought about it, he _did_ rather fancy one girl-well, she had only eyes for Ron, anyway, and that was out of the question. Puppy love, that's what Gran would call it, little-kid affection that involved nothing more significant than a piece of candy slipped, one hand to the other, under a desk. Puppy love. He reaffirmed his faith in Gran's harsh judgement by repeating it to himself again. Still, his puppy love took his mind off the miserable fact of this useless reunion.

He thought the first scream was something of delight. The second one caused him to look up. A cloud was passing over the sky. It seemed like night was falling, billowing across the meadow, streaming out behind a line of figures who advanced toward Neville . . .

One shot out a beam of green light, a light that Neville recognized.

Neville didn't think. He pulled out his wand and, though it shook, he began to march forward, almost unwillingly. He chanted to himself: _What__would__Harry__do__, __what__would__Harry__do__-_Harry would start firing hexes. _"__Impedimenta__!"_ Harry would try his best to help his family. "Run! Everyone, run!" Most obeyed. Neville was going to be sick, but he would stand for as long as he could. Harry would go down fighting.

"Don't be a fool," a voice said behind him. Whirling, wand at the ready, Neville uncounted his Gran, brandishing a wand. Augusta Longbottom was threatening, facing the marching darkness with grim determination. "Run, Neville."

"I won't go," Neville said with more bravery than he felt, shocking himself. He turned again and began firing hexes. Spells came from behind him-his Gran, accepting his resistance. Neville felt giddy and slightly sick with adrenalin. The line resolved itself into one Death Eater. The wand pointed up, bringing the darkness, drawing across the sky as every hex was parried.

"Neville, little boy," one called in a woman's voice. "Do you remember me? My name is Bellatrix Lestrange, boy." She sauntered closer, grinning, eyes slitted. "Our last meeting . . . we have some unfinished business."

"You and I have some business to attend to as well," Augusta shouted. She stepped forward until she was abreast with Neville.

"What would that be, old woman?" Bellatrix asked idly, never taking her gaze from Neville.

"You killed my son," she said, her voice booming.

"He's quite alive, dear," Bellatrix replied patronizingly. "Just a little-ah-dotty." Her laugh was tinkling and high, like a chandelier being shaken violently. She parried Augusta's furious spell with ease.

Neville pointed his wand. "_Avada__Kedavra__!"_ he shouted, voice breaking slightly around the incantation.

Bellatrix was hit in the stomach. She stumbled back, and Neville, horrified, dropped his wand. Was she dead? Had Neville killed? She panted for a moment and then began to smile. Her chuckle began low and expanded to a screaming cackle. "Is that all you have for me, Longbottom? Is that all the hatred and fury you can muster in your great attempt to kill me? IS THAT ALL YOU CAN DO?" She wiped blood from her nose and screamed, "WATCH!" With a whipping motion, a streamer of light caught Neville's Gran by the neck and dragged her forward. She struggled, wand knocked free. Her face began to redden and purple.

"_E__-__e__-__expelliarmus__! __Stupefy__! __Impedimenta__!"_ Neville shrieked, failing or missing in each.

Bellatrix's voice had lost its cool, it's seductive and mellifluous quality. "You don't hate me enough just yet, Longbottom, you will . . . you will . . ." she muttered maniacally, interspersed with laughter. She stretched her wand and gestured gracefully, and the whip laced itself over a tall tree branch. Gran was lifted off the ground, feet kicking, turning blue.

"Watch this, Longbottom," she screamed breathlessly. "Watch how much you should hate me, you stupid little boy!"

"_Avada__Kedavra__!"_ he tried again, but it was no use; he was wide to the left.

Bellatrix broke the glittering rope from her wand, his gran still hanging, kicking from the branch. "_Crucio__!"_ she returned, and her aim was perfect.

Neville fell to his knees. _Think__of__something__else__. __Think__of__something__else__._ His veins were full of fire. This grass was overwatered. He was twitching in agony. He could see lines in the grass where tables had been moved, broken blades of grass. He was going to die. He had to die. There was nothing more to think about-

The curse lifted.

"I can't believe the Dark Lord almost considered _you_ a threat_,_ baby Longbottom." She watched him try to rise, body shaking with the memory of pain. "Would you like to take another shot? Third time's a charm, they say. Try to kill me."

"_A__ . . . __Ava__ . . ._" Neville panted, but could not eke out the words.

"Too much for you? Let's try a little more encouragement, shall we? _Crucio__!"_

_Something__else__. __Anything__else_. His mother in St Mungo's, giving him a bubblegum wrapper. Mother, not recognizing him. Mother, where are you? Mother, why did you have to leave me? Mother, give me the strength to kill this woman who took you from me. For you, Mother . . .

Muscles seizing, spasming, neurons misfiring in sensory overload, Neville raised his head. "_Incendio__,_" he gasped.

Bellatrix, in her sadistic fervor, did not see or feel her robes catch fire. It was only after it began to burn her flesh that she felt it. She screamed, and the curse broke.

Now, what would Harry do? Neville mused, on the brink of unconsciousness. Harry would stay conscious. Harry would breathe. The grass smelled just like grass should, earthy, damp, like the greenhouse. His gran swung from a tree. She had stopped kicking . . .

Bellatrix put out the fire and strode to Neville's prostrate body. "_Avada__Kedavra__,_" she said through clenched teeth, wand pointed at his head. Her aim was perfect.


	9. Chapter 9: Leaving Privet Drive

The Poetic Disclaimer:

_All__you__see__is__JK__Rowling__'__s_

_Except__this__lovely__plot_

_And__if__you__steal__either__for__profit_

_I__will__have__you__shot__._

...

Chapter 9: Leaving Privet Drive

Draco Malfoy was asleep when the owl arrived. More specifically, the owl barreled beak-first into his face, waking Draco with a small shriek and a flurry of wings. It was a tiny, brown, buzzing thing, and it took Draco a while to catch it. When he finally did, the thing hooted in recognition and cozied up to his palm.

"Um, hello," Draco said awkwardly. "Can I-please-" But the owl was too busy trying to devour his finger with friendly nips for Draco to get the letter. "Stop that. Stop that! Ow! Little beast. I ought to hex you." Draco managed to wrench free the note, making the little owl tumble over and out of his hands, and Draco sucked on his injured finger while thumbing open the note with one hand. It read:

_Harry__,_

_Short__notice__, __mate__, __but__we__'__ve__been__busy__, __you__'__ll__see__. __We__'__re__going__to__come__to__get__you__on__Friday__. __My__mom__is__already__baking__, __muttering__things__about__you__ "__wasting__away__in__that__awful__Muggle__deathtrap__." __Me__and__Hermione__and__Mum__have__planned__a__fantastic__celebration__for__you__. __We__'__re__coming__in__an__auto__!_

_ -__Ron_

Draco was terribly confused. _Today_ was Friday. Given what the Prophet had said, he guessed the horrible little owl-who, even now, was hopping from leg to leg on the bedpost, hooting plaintively for treats-had probably been held up, or in hiding, what with each side trying to intercept as many owls as it could to spy on the other. What was he supposed to bring? Everything? Was there room in that Weasley hole-in-the-wall for all this? The makeshift invisibility cloak-Snape had taken a similar plain black travelling cloak, and cast exceptionally strong Disillusionment and Bedazzlement charms on it, which would, Snape said, last for at least a few months. But everything else? This disguise was off to a horrible start. Still, as Snape had explained it, they would barely need Harry's more magical possessions, considering what they were going to do. Draco sighed and waved his wand, beginning to mutter spells to gather things up from the room. He and Harry had discovered quickly that the Ministry was terribly lax about reprimanding underage magic use. They had more important things to attend to, Draco thought darkly. He shut the trunk with a final flick and took a precautionary swig of Polyjuice potion. He shuddered at the taste and thrust both wand and flask into the pockets of Harry's jeans.

His face righted itself slightly, and he rubbed the bridge of his-Harry's-nose. Waking up every one and a half hours to drink this repulsive potion was absolutely horrible. Snape had shown him a spell that made his pillow-or any object-vibrate, as an alarm, after a certain amount of time had passed. He considered leaving a vibrating pillow for Aunt Petunia to deal with, but thought better of it. He dropped a pen into his pocket after enchanting it with the same spell-every hour and a half. As for the owl, he chucked him out the window and shouted, "Go home!" after him.

Draco marched down the steps with confidence, floating his trunk and Hedwig in her cage behind him, and found the Dursleys at breakfast. All this time, they had been ignoring everything Harry and he had been doing. The door to his room opened only when Draco sneaked to the bathroom or to the kitchen for the plates of food for him in the fridge. Draco left his things by the front door, ready to leave, and entered the kitchen.

Two round faces and one horsey one looked up at him.

Draco cleared his throat. "Er . . . right. Well. As you know, my birthday is coming soon."

Uncle Vernon said, "Dudley, pass the bacon."

"Come off it, I know that you can see me." Draco pulled up a chair at the other end of the table, opposite Vernon. "My birthday is coming soon. That means, in the wizarding world, that I have come of age. It also means the protection here has expired."

Petunia looked up, as if she had just smelled something putrid. "Is that . . . _man_ . . . going to come back? That Dubbledore?"

Draco felt sick. "Dumbledore," he corrected her, a slight tint of anger in his voice.

Dudley spoke up. "What a stupid name. Seems like all the wizards are named stupid names." He snorted, thinking he was clever. "Stupid names because they _are_ stupid."

How had Harry put up with this for so long? Draco wondered. It was all Draco could do not to hex the boy into next week, and this was the first time he'd seen him up close. Put the Dursleys before the Ministry and they might just come 'round to the Dark Lord's way of thinking yet. They were repulsive. "That has to be the most puerile insult I've ever heard, Muggle."

"Now listen here, boy-" Vernon declared, becoming red and beginning to stand.

Draco brandished his wand. "No," he said, his voice deadly quiet and even. "_You_ listen."

Dudley snorted again, more piglike than ever. "You can't do magic, you'll get expelled."

Draco smiled unpleasantly at Dudley, feeling the air become cold around him in fury. "Expelled? Yes. I would get expelled. If Hogwarts was opening again in September, I would be expelled." He turned to Vernon with false sweetness. "Have you been reading the papers, Uncle dear? You see all these catastrophes? Bridges collapsing? Murders? Explosions? Terrorists, I think you Muggles call them." His laugh was short, mocking. "You are _fools__._ Those are Death Eaters."

There was a terrible silence. Dudley tried to chuckle.

"You think it's funny, Dudders?" Draco's voice was sickly sweet, and he enunciated his words with perfect calm. "Hilarious, isn't it, Dudders? Death Eaters. They follow-the wizard who did _this__._" He lifted the front of his hair. "The wizard they thought was _dead_. He should have died. He murdered my parents. My godfather, Sirius-they murdered him too." Harry's memory surged through him, unbidden. "The wizard with the stupid name, Dudders? He is the greatest wizard I will ever know and-now he's dead. _They_ killed him. They will stop at nothing until wizards have dominion over Muggles." Draco grinned, exposing his canines. "Hilarious."

Vernon swallowed once, twice, and then choked out, "Bollocks."

"Really? Don't believe me?" Draco asked lightly. "Want to see their tactics, Vernon? Would you like to experience a moment of what you're up against?" Draco rounded the table, wand pointed at him. "_Imperio__._"

This was the easiest Imperius Curse he had ever cast. The muggle's resistance crumpled like a house of cards beneath Draco's iron grip. Vernon twitched, then stood. He began to sing. "I'm a little teapot, short and stout-"

Dudley began laughing. "Dad, stop that."

"He can't. He can't stop unless I make him. It's all funny _now_, Dudders, until someone gets hurt . . ."

Vernon walked behind Dudley's chair and placed both hands around his neck and began to squeeze. Dudley spluttered in surprise, spraying saliva and bits of egg over the table.

"Dad! _Dad__!"_

Petunia slammed her hand on the table. "Stop it, Harry!" she screamed.

Draco lifted his wand and broke the curse. Vernon sagged against the chair, and Dudley sucked in breath. Vernon regained his balance. There was a horrible silence filled with panting.

"That curse is illegal," Draco continued, voice low and mocking. That old rush of power-of Dark magic-was filling him with its familiar cruelty. "_That_ is what I am up against. They have reanimated corpses called Inferi, they have Dementors that suck the soul out through the mouth, they have werewolves, giants-"

"Those don't exist," Vernon gasped.

"Don't they? Remember the rash of rabid wolves that bit children? Those weren't wolves. Those were werewolves. Come the next full moon-"

"Stop it! Stop it!" Petunia shrieked again. "As if I haven't heard all this already!" She glared at Draco. "Lily told the me the first time around about . . . all of it. To warn me."

"And then," Draco hissed, "She died."

Petunia shook, looking up into his green eyes narrowed with hatred.

"She died!" Draco laughed, sounding empty and hollow, a vision of Lily Potter materializing before his eyes, an image not his own. "She died, and you took the little scarred boy pulled from the wreckage of her house and hated him and abused him and put him in a broom closet and tried to keep him from the only world where he would be happy! Oh, what considerate and protective parents you are!"

Petunia looked away. "I thought . . . we thought it was for . . . the best."

Draco let the silence expand horribly, measuring all the injuries done to Harry against what he was doing now, Draco's revenge. He left the room quietly and sat with the trunk by the front door. He lifted a spellbook out of it and flipped through aimlessly. He passed the time, practicing small transfgurations on Dudleys shoes. He had never been very good at transfiguration, Draco mused. Too busy ignoring the McGonagall hag and, he supposed, getting points deducted from Slytherin for it. He considered the last time he had cared about the house cup, the last time he had done what he thought was the right thing-or even the wrong thing-for the sake of Slytherin pride and his own cleverness instead of out of fear. It felt like lifetimes. His pen vibrated twice, and each time he took a sip of Polyjuice.

It was Petunia who finally came to him, out of the dining room. Draco ignored her, and she sat on the stairs, facing him. "Harry," she said in a gentler voice than Draco had ever seen in Harry's memories.

Draco waved his wand and Dudley's left shoe sprouted stalks, topped with eyeballs. "That's not it," he muttered, flipping back a few pages.

"Harry," she said, more insistently.

Draco waved the wand again, muttering an incantation, and the eyeballs disappeared. The shoe then turned a lurid purple.

"Harry, I do miss my sister, whatever you think." Her voice was small and delicate. Draco looked up, and tears were collecting in her eyes.

"_Lapis_," he muttered to the shoe, and it turned to stone. He shut the book and looked up. Finally, he spoke with absolute calm. "I am leaving this place forever. You don't have to put up with me anymore, so you can quit the crocodile tears. You should hope that I defeat him. For your sake."

A knock came at the door. Petunia rose to answer it, but Draco whirled, wand raised, and motioned for her to wait. Slowly, he opened the door.

"Harry!" Ron Weasley was in grand form, in an outfit that would have been authentically Muggle if his shirt had not been two sizes too small and pink. The collar was half-stuffed inside the shirt, and Draco was unsure if it was intentional or if Ron were just a simpleton.

"Ron," Draco replied, relieved.

"Your stuff?" Ron asked, pointing to the trunk and cage.

"Yeah," Draco said, scratching his head. He lifted one end, and Ron grabbed the other. Hedwig looked disgruntled.

From behind him, Aunt Petunia spoke, sounding broken. "Well-Goodbye, Harry." She darted forward and pecked a small kiss on his cheek. "You-you have my sister's eyes, you know."

Draco smiled, wide and fake. "Wish me luck."

As they walked to the car, hefting the trunk, Ron looked at Harry suspiciously. Draco felt a twinge of panic. They heaved the trunk into a magically expanded boot, and finally Ron spoke.

"What was _that_ all about?"

Draco could have laughed with relief. Fooling the Dursleys was easy. Ron and Hermione-well, he would simply have to keep himself in check. "They-well, you see, I just got your note this morning." He proceeded to explain in short-minus his Imperius curse, an action that Harry never would have taken, Draco decided, no matter how much they deserved it-what had transpired.

"You explode at them and then she comes out and gives you a kiss?" Ron made a face. "Blimey. Wish my mum was like that."

"My _mom_ isn't like that," Draco reminded him.

"Er . . . oh . . ." Ron looked injured and sheepish. "Sorry, Harry."

"What are you two waiting for?" a frizzy head demanded, emerging from the car. "Let's get going."

Once all were settled on the couches inside the small car-magic, of course-Hermione and Ron began to talk. It was surprisingly easy for Draco to simply sit there and absorb what they said.

"Oh, Harry, it's too bad you had to miss the wedding," Hermione began, shaking her head. "Beautiful, absolutely beautiful."

"I thought you hated Fleur," Draco said with a laugh.

"I'm not _talking_ about Fleur! Just-the whole thing. Ginny, in that gorgeous bridesmaid's dress! Oh, Harry, you would have loved it. And that tiara!" Hermione sighed.

"All a crock, if you ask me. Really dull. Though now that you mention it, Fleur-ouch! That was my _ribs_, Hermione!"

Hermione shot him a venomous smile.

"Hey, there, you two! No fighting, please!" Arthur Weasley called from the driver's seat. "Though it is too bad, but the Ministry stopped me from inviting you to the wedding."

"The _Ministry__?_" Draco asked, incredulous, trying to avoid the scorn that threatened to creep into his voice. Purebloods never did put a lot of stock in the Ministry.

"Yes, the Ministry itself. They want you safe, Harry." Arthur smiled into the rear view mirror and added, "Of course, I managed to convince them to take you away well before your birthday, if only to prevent any-ah-damage to your family."

Draco noticed that both Ron and Hermione were making silencing motions. Ron pointed to his father, then pantomimed strangling himself. _Horcruxes__,_ Hermione mouthed, and then placed a finger over her lips.

"Ah . . . right," Draco responded lamely.

"Took quite a bit of doing to get them to let me have you at my house, really. They want you to come up to the offices once you're all settled in. Minister wants a few words."

"Um . . . settled in?"

Arthur Weasley abandoned the wheel. "You didn't think we'd let you go and find a place of you own, did you? Harry, you've-"

"Dad!" Ron shouted. "Drive!"

"Oh-right-" Arthur returned to the wheel. "Well, Harry, Molly and I think that it's only fair that you stay with us as long as you wish. You've saved-I mean-you've been very good to our family, Harry." He ended, sounding sentimental.

Ron mimed gagging. "That means he feels like he owes it to you," Ron whispered.

"The _wedding__,_" Hermione said loudly. "Was lovely."

"The , uh, the cake was good," Ron added, catching on. "And you should have seen this _dress__-_" Hermione looked disgruntled. "It was great. Your dress, Hermione-what sort of purple was that?" Ron turned to Hermione, asking.

"Lavender," Hermione said in a small, sheepish voice. "My dress was lavender."

Draco felt slightly nauseated. Had these two always been this way, and he had never noticed? All the teasing he could have done about Granger and Weasley, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G . . . wasted. Draco wanted to kick himself.

"Lavender?" Ron asked, looking slightly queasy.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that?" Hermione rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Ron, I'm not going to hold it against you forever."

"Only the next few centuries, like," Ron muttered, looking dejected.

"You were a prat," Hermione said matter-of-factly. "But we have more important things to discuss than Ron's ability to suck the face right off-ow! Ron!"

Ron pointed to his father. "Don't-Doesn't know-" he muttered.

Hermione sighed in a long-suffering way and pointed her wand to Arthur. "_Muffliato__."_ She leaned close. "Forget it, Ron. We have more important things to discuss." She turned to Draco. "Harry, we've started making plans. I've done quite a bit of research on Slytherin's locket and-I think-I think I may know who R.A.B. is."

Snape had told him that this was coming, but could not help the opportunity to one-up Hermione Granger. "Me too. Regulus Black."

Hermione looked shocked, and Ron laughed. Hermione looked even more hurt.

Draco felt a pang of something unfamiliar. Guilt? Oh, come on, he thought, It's Hermione Granger, showing up the know-it-all should feel good. Buck up. It's just a Mudblood. Somehow, the obscenity soured in his mind.

"But-Hermione-he's dead, right? That's where I get stuck on it," Draco said, trying to make amends.

"Well, yes," Hermione replied, smoothing her hair. "But I know where we can start. Grimmauld Place."

"Right," Draco replied, glad to have made amends. Watch it, he chided himself.

"Harry, I don't know if you're allowed to Apparate or-"

"We're here!" Arthur Weasly interjected, too loudly. He wiggled a finger into his ear, trying to dispel the _Muffliato__._ Hermione promptly lifted the spell, and Arthur sighed with relief. "We're home now," Arthur declared. "Everyone, out!"

They piled out of the car, Arthur Weasley levitating all of the luggage to the front door, including the cantankerous Hedwig.

"Molly!" he called. "Come on, you need to give me the password!"

"Arthur, my souffle-"

"Molly, we could be Death Eaters in disguise!"

A loud bang, and Molly Weasley Apparated at the door. "If you were Death Eaters, you'd bust in the door and not bother to ask me to force a password out of you."

"Mollywobbles," Arthur said, ignoring her logic.

"Door's open anyway," Molly replied, and Disapparated back to, presumably, the kitchen, mumbling something cruel about idiot security measures and the Ministry.

Arthur opened the door and showed Ron, Hermione, and Draco in, and then floated the luggage up to their rooms. "You know," he called to Molly. "one of us could be a Death Eater. Polyjuice Potion and all that. It's a very real danger, Molly."

Draco swallowed and looked around nervously.

"Right," she replied acidly. "So I'm going to live every moment of my life in mortal peril, is that it? Till-well-you know, things get better?"

Draco realized that everyone was staring at him. For a moment, his heart leaped into his throat, thinking he had been caught out-but no. _The__Chosen__One__._ Right. He restrained a bitter thought; _Yeah__, __I__'__ll__just__wave__my__wand__, __Summon__up__those__pesky__Horcruxes__, __throw__them__on__a__compost__heap__, __and__have__a__nice__sit__-__down__with__the__Dark__Lord__, __make__him__repent__, __and__we__'__ll__all__have__a__fine__tea__-__all__of__us__, __the__Dark__Lord__, __and__Dumbledore__. __Merlin__will__bring__us__crumpets__._

"Oh, _Harry__!_" A red-haired comet collided with Draco, and was immediately kissing him with great abandon.

"Mmfph?" Draco replied, going cross-eyed in his futile attempt to see who exactly was attached to his lips.

Ginny Weasley detached herself from Draco's face and began to blush. "I missed you, Harry," she said sheepishly.

"I . . . yeah . . . well . . . gosh. I missed you too." In his confusion, he took a stab at proper Harry form.

"Mum's set up a room for you," Ron interjected blithely. "Come on, we'll show you."

"A . . . a room?"

"You're moving in, aren't you?" Ginny asked, scrutinizing him.

"Mom won't take no for an answer," Ron warned.

"I . . . um . . . sure?"

"Then come on. Though-don't mention this to Mom-" Ron added as they ascended the stairs. "It's Percy's old room. Percy's out for _good__._"

"Don't say that, Ron," Ginny admonished. "He'll come 'round soon enough."

"Yeah, but either way, he's lost his bed. Though I'd say he deserves a night or two on the kitchen floor, the way he's been acting," Ron replied.

The door opened into a bright, small room with one bed. The drawers were empty, and the covers turned down invitingly.

"Wow," Draco said appreciatively. He was disappointed at the size, but at least he was alone.

Ron beamed. "Thought you'd like it."

The pen in Draco's pocket vibrated menacingly.

Arthur Weasley appeared at the door. "Ron, Ginny, why don't you go help Hermione get settled in?"

"She's already mostly unpacked," Ginny protested.

"No, no, I could use the help," Hermione declared with false levity. She shot Draco a meaningful look as she ushered the two younger Weasleys out of the room.

Arthur shut the door behind him. "Harry," he said, sounding serious. "I just want you to know that if you need anything-_anything_-that we are here to help."

Draco sat on the bed. Remember to be the boy-hero, he thought bitterly. "I don't think I need much. I mean, you're giving me a bed . . . letting me stay with friends. That's all I really need." Probably to sappy, but Arthur seemed to buy it.

"That's my boy, Harry." He placed a hand on Draco's shoulder and his smile faded. "Still . . . Don't feel that-oh, this is difficult." He looked down, sighing. "Don't feel you have to go after You-Know-Who, Harry. You've done more than enough for-for everyone. We don't want to lose you. I'm sure the Ministry's got it under control."

Draco had to resist the laugh. As if the Ministry could handle the Dark Lord. Might as well send a pack of first-year Hufflepuffs after him. But what would Harry say? Honesty, he decided. "Mr Weasley, you know I can't promise that. If there's any way-anything that I can do to stop him . . ."

"Harry, you could _die__,"_ Arthur said carefully. "Harry-after all you've sacrificed for us-we can't just let you-let you walk off and-and-"

"Mr Weasley, he killed my mother," Draco said, his voice equally serious, slipping for a moment, the sharpness of his own recent pain in his voice. "He destroyed everything I've ever loved, and I'm supposed to wait here and eat souffles while he builds an army? Hogwarts has already gone, and the old Death Eaters are all returning, and he's got new ones too-Crabbe and Goyle and Nott and," he swallowed, "_Malfoy_ . . . and the Ministry does nothing?" Arthur tried to protest, but Draco waved it away with an expression of contempt. "Would Dumbledore want me stay here and be cornered-because they will hunt me down, I know that-or would he want me to at least try? To go down fighting?"

A small half-smile appeared on Arthur's face. "Well, I tried. Least I can tell Molly I tried." He turned and went for the door. "Can't say I expected much else out of you, though, Harry. You're a Gryffindor through and through." He paused. "We'll try to stop you, you know. We won't let you go if we can stop you. I'd put you in a Body-Bind and stuff you in the closet for as long as it took, if I thought it would do any good." Arthur sniffled and wiped away a tear. Draco was silent. Finally, Arthur opened the door. "Lunch ought to be in a half-hour."

Arthur shut the door and Draco sighed. He opened the trunk and refilled his flask of Polyjuice potion, taking a single revolting sip. Stupid Weasleys. So caught up in emotionality that they couldn't see what had to be done. Still, the house was clean . . . and the people were friendly. Draco lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, not bothering to unpack. Why was it so hard to hate these people now?


	10. Chapter 10: On Bravery

The Poetic Disclaimer:

All you see is JK Rowling's

Except this lovely plot

And if you steal either for profit

I will have you shot.

...

Part Eleven: On Bravery

After a lunch that even Draco had to admit was delicious, Draco, Hermione, and Ron took their dessert-home-made ice cream-outside. They settled under a tree, Draco against the trunk, Ron lounging nearby, and Hermione sitting straight.

" . . . and you know, Harry, it's not so hard to do with a little practice," Ron declared with a flourish of his spoon.

"Mmm-hmm," Draco agreed absently.

"Harry," Hermione demanded, a cutting edge to her voice. "Have you heard a single word we've said?"

"Of course," Draco answered automatically.

"What did Ron just finish saying?"

Draco looked up, through the tree-branches. "I have no idea."

Hermione sighed. "Harry, _honestly__._"

"I'm not that boring, am I?" Ron looked to Hermione. "Am I?"

Hermione shot him a look that spoke volumes. "Listen, Ron, Harry's got something on his mind and he certainly won't tell us unless we bother it out of him." Hermione returned to Harry. "Now. Harry. What is it that's bothering you?"

Draco cleared his throat, still looking up. They waited a solid thirty seconds, and finally Draco dug deep and said, "It's a very nice day, don't you think?"

"Harry!" Hermione admonished. "You sound like-well, you sound . . . ."

"I sound like Dumbledore," Draco finished simply. Draco steeled himself to the effort of producing false tears, and was surprised to find that they were there already. He shook his head and wiped them away furiously. His father would be ashamed, crying for that Muggle-loving fool-

"Aw, Harry," Ron said, looking down. "It's . . . it's a compliment."

"It's not important," Draco said. "We should discuss the Horcruxes."

"Right. Regulus Black," Ron said, thumping the earth next to Draco's leg heartily. "Er, who is he?"

"Was," Hermione corrected.

Draco rolled his eyes and looked at Ron with condescension. "Sirius' brother, Ron."

Ron looked hurt and surprised. "Blimey, Harry, you don't have to sound like that." He sat up, drawing slightly away. "You sound like bleeding _Malfoy_."

Draco remained very still. "Please don't compare me to him."

They were quiet for a few moments. Finally, Hermione broke the heavy silence. "Harry, listen to me. We're coming with you to find the Horcruxes whether you like it or not. We believe in you, and we're going to help you."

Draco looked down. "So . . . "

"So stop acting so _weird_!" Ron exclaimed.

Draco gave a small, expert smile. They were giving him his excuse for acting odd. It couldn't be any easier. "So. Regulus Black."

"Regulus Black," Hermione affirmed with a sigh of releif. "Right. As you said, Harry, he's Sirius' brother, a pureblood and a Death Eater. He tried to back out, and was killed. It makes perfect sense that he would want to destroy them, seeing their tactics-well, they're horrible, really, but that's not surprising. Being a Death Eater, he's in the perfect position to know where the Horcruxes are hidden, and, more importantly, to understand and avoid the dangers of You-Know-Who's traps."

"Yeah," Ron added. "Plus, his initials match."

Draco knew all this; Snape had explained it to him, after they had met up again. He nodded. "Yeah. I talked to Sirius, and-"

Hermione gave him a look of concern. "Harry, Sirius is-"

"Dead, I know," Draco interrupted. "This was-before. When we were cleaning the house out. I think we should start there, actually." This was also part of Snape's instructions. _Start__at__the__Black__house__, __Draco__. __I__'__ll__be__able__to__instruct__you__from__there__._ How, Draco wasn't sure, but he had agreed to the plan, and was following as best he could.

"Good," Hermione replied. "On that, we agree. We can at least find some clues as to where all of Regulus' things went, perhaps from the portraits-"

"We're blood traitors, remember?" Ron said blithely, ripping up bits of grass. "They'll never talk to us."

"Oh, I think we can find a way," Hermione said with a small smile. Ron and Draco both raised an eyebrow at her. She looked fairly bursting to tell them some new book she had read that would help them.

"Are you going to ask her?" Ron muttered to Draco.

"No. You do it," Draco replied.

"Shut up," Hermione said with good humor. "This school year, we were supposed to start learning _human_ transfiguration. Now we started, of course, a little bit-but McGonagall only taught us the basics. I asked her, at the end of the year, to recommend some books to me, and she gave me loads of useful texts."

"So?" Ron asked.

Hermione looked flustered as his lack of imagination and interest. "So? _So__,_ that means we can transfigure ourselves! Into someone that the portraits might trust! Like, I don't know-Malfoy or some other pureblood that they'll trust."

"Yeah," Ron replied. "And acting Malfoy will be easy. Just walk down the hall with your nose in the air and whine if anything gets in your way. Get a bucket of cronies, and some poor Quiddich skills-"

"He's not too bad a Seeker," Draco interjected, unable to resist defending himself.

"Yeah, but he's never gotten the Snitch from you, now has he, Harry?"

"There's been a couple close calls," Draco replied.

"Doesn't make up for his being a terrible person. Absolute idiot, if you ask me, following in his daddy's footsteps. If I were born into that sort of family, I'd pull a Sirius and run off." Ron affected a nasal, aristocratic tone. "I'm Lucius Malfoy. I'm a big nasty Death Eater. I like to lick You-Know-Who's boots. My son is a prat and my wife is an ugly-"

"Ron!" Hermione said sharply. "Stop that!"

"Why? It's true," Ron said, dropping his accent. "Narcissa Malfoy is-"

It was all Draco could to do restrain himself from strangling Ron. "Narcissa Malfoy is dead."

"Wh . . . What?" Ron asked, bewildered.

Hermione looked at Ron with disgust. "Ron, _please_ start reading the papers. The Malfoy estate was overrun with Dementors. The Ministry can't figure it out. And Lucius Malfoy killed himself in Azkaban."

Draco could not breathe. It was all he could do to remain as still as he could, to not let this news show on his face. Tight bands constricted his chest, an icy rope of twisted, held back tears. He fought, as hard as he could, to keep his face still, his heart still, everything inside him still and dead so it wouldn't be a giveaway. All the breath left him.

"Killed himself?" Ron asked.

"Yeah. Apparently he just had a visitor. Killed himself the next day, after it came out in _The__Daily__Prophet_ that his wife was found and his son was assumed dead." Hermione shrugged. "Nothing to live for, I suppose. It was _Dementors_, after all-his own side that did it." Hermione brushed an errant strand of hair out of her eyes.

They sat in silence for a moment, and Hermione looked up.

"Harry, is something wrong?"

Draco stood and began to walk swiftly away, furiously wiping away the wetness that streaked his face.

"Harry!" Hermione stood and sprinted after him. "Harry, what's wrong?"

Draco stopped, his backed turned. Harry's eyes, those green eyes, were streaming still with his own tears. "It's people we _know_, Hermione."

Ron caught up. "Harry, it's just the Malfoys," he said after a moment, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Draco shrugged the hand away. "You-you just think you have some certainties in life, you know?" His voice cracked. "You think-no matter what-you'll have certain things to return to. No matter what, Draco Malfoy will always hate me. Harmless little rivalry."

"Not so harmless, Harry, remember what he did to you on the train, and-and he tried to cast the Cruciatus Curse on you," Hermione interrupted.

Draco rambled on, scrambling for a cover. "And now it turns out that he and his family-his father, _suicide__-_his mother by Dementors, that soulless-sucking the soul out through the mouth-and he, they don't even know where he is."

Hermione's voice was gentle, and he did not shrug away her hand. "Harry, Draco made his choice. He was a Death Eater. We can't let the fact that we knew him cloud our judgement." She swallowed. "If we come up against others-Crabbe, Goyle-people in our class, Harry, it might come down to it. Us or them."

Ron watched Hermione's mouth, slackjawed himself, astonished at what she was saying. "Hermione, it won't come to-"

"It _will__,"_ she said savagely. "And we've got to be ready for that possibility."

Ron was even more aghast. "Hermione, you can't mean-"

"Did you think it was going to be so easy? That it'd be clean and nice and pleasant?" Hermione raged, suddenly furious. "You've never seen a real war, Ron. My grandad has. He was in World War two, he was there, in France, he-he told me stories, he kept newspaper clippings, he still has shrapnel in his leg and he has to use a cane to walk-" She seemed to run out of things to say, but her look was still hard. "We may have to kill. If it comes down to it, we may have to kill, and we will have to mean it, and we will not have time to worry or hem and haw or deliberate. We will not have time to hesitate because _they_ will not hesitate. This is _war_."

Both Ron and Draco were stunned at this outpouring.

Finally, Draco spoke. "She's right. And it's harder than it sounds, the curse. Meaning it."

"I cannot believe what you two are saying," Ron said, voice low and rough with distress.

"If you don't think you can do it- Draco began, arrogance creeping into his voice.

"I'll do it, if it comes down to us." Ron stood, shaking his head. "You don't have to sound so bloody excited about it, though." And he stalked off, back toward the house. Draco rose to follow him, but Hermione tugged on his arm.

"Harry, sit down."

Draco sat, grateful for someone else to take control. For a while, they sat there, Hermione watching his face and breathing, only a bit too quickly, and Draco, sitting there, ripping up bits of grass from the lawn, not meeting her gaze.

"Something's wrong. I want to hear it. From you."

Draco took a few deep gulps of breath. FInally, he released them all. It didn't help to steady him. "Hermione," he said, voice shaking. "I'm afraid. I'm afraid of what we'll do when we get to the Horcruxes, I'm afraid of what will protect the Horcruxes. I'm supposed to be so brave, Hermione, everyone tells me I'm brave, but all I feel is weak and-scared. Terrified, head to toe." He looked down and mumbled, "Some Chosen One I am."

Hermione knelt next to him. "Bravery isn't a lack of fear. Bravery is being scared and doing it anyway."

Draco sneered. "That's a crock."

"Do you know who taught me that, Harry?" Hermoine paused. "_You_ did."

Draco laughed. "I'm a very convincing liar, aren't I?"

Hermione looked confused and saddened. "No. You're a wise, brave, powerful person . . . who occasionally acts like a bloody fool." When Draco turned his face away, she cupped his cheek in her hand and turned it back to her. "_Listen_ to me. Even now, at its worst, did you ever even consider running? Did you ever consider not doing what you have to do?"

Draco thought. Not Harry, no. Draco's new duty was exactly the same as Harry's had always been. He had run from his duty as a Death Eater, but in revenge? "No," he replied. Not this time. People had called him sly, sneaky, cunning-but never brave. Draco felt a sudden, violent affection for Hermione. He smiled. "No, I'm not going to run."

Hermione smiled at him. "Well, there you are. Bravery. And you're too nearsighted to know it."


	11. Chapter 11: Percy Returns

The Poetic Disclaimer:

All you see is JK Rowling's

Except this lovely plot

And if you steal either for profit

I will have you shot.

...

Part Twelve: Percy Returns

When dinner arrived, Draco was consoled, though not chipper by any stretch, and Ron was sheepish. Still, they marched inward to a fabulous dinner, where a few more chairs were filled at the table. Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks, Draco recognized from the Pensieve, sat side by side. The conversation was going amiably until they came to the topic of Fleur and Bill's marriage. The newlyweds had left for Fleur's home in rural France.

Mrs Weasley appeared, to Draco, to like Fleur. "Oh, I hope they're having a good time. Really I do." She looked at her husband and blushed.

"You remember our honeymoon, Molly?" Arthur wiggled his eyebrows suggestively over the top of the Daily Prophet.

"Arthur!" Mrs Weasley blushed deeper. "Not now."

"What happened to all it being foolishness, Mum?" Ginny grumbled, "Honestly. The paper's marriage section is as big as the obituaries, and it's all for the same-"

Lupin slammed down his cup and pushed his chair away violently.

"Remus-" Tonks called pleadingly, holding to his sleeve.

His look was withering. "Let go of me," he barked. Draco thought he could see a gleam of werewolf in his eyes. Tonks let go, shocked, and Lupin strode from the room, slamming the door behind him. She rose and followed him out, looking desperate.

There was a sudden silence. Ginny finally broke it, muttering,"What's his problem?"

"Nothing to do with you, Ginny dear," Mrs Weasley said consolingly, touching her hand reassuringly. "It isn't your fault in the slightest." She looked to the door where Lupin had disappeared. "He's just-just stressed. That's all."

Ginny picked at her food with a fork. "You don't say," she said wryly. "Can't think of a single reason to be stressed here. Not one." She dropped the fork.

"Ginny!" Arthur Weasley said sharply. "That's quite enough."

"It's not _fair__!"_ she retorted, boiling slightly over in what was obviously an old argument. "We could _help_ the Order!"

"No, you most certainly can't!" Mrs Weasley interjected, her voice shrill.

"And why not?"

"Ginerva Weasley, we have already had this discussion, and-" Mrs Weasley was stopped by her husband's outstretched hand.

Arthur Weasley seemed to be torn between rage and tears. He finally burst, folding the newspaper before him to expose a headline somewhere above the fold, in the middle. "_This_ is why, Ginny," he strangled out. He stood and cast a copy of the _Daily__ Prophet_ to her, across the table.

Even a few seats away, Draco could read the headline:

**Longbottom ****Family ****Massacred**!

Ginny stared, wide-mouthed, at the headline. Hermione took it from her, grim but calm, and began to read aloud.

"Death Eaters suspected in the murder vicious murder of the entire Longbottom family," she began, her voice heavy but steady. "This family is no stranger to loss. When He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came to power the first time, it was Alice and Frank Longbottom who paid the price. They suffered under the Cruciatus curse rather than give information, and were driven mad. They now are the only remaining members of the Longbottom family, residing in St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

"The Longbottom Reunion staged the battle. Aurors are unsure what means were used to overpower these wizards and witches, but it appears it was only one attacker. Most bodies were found in hiding, killed in an undisclosed manner. Only two bodies were found in a manner that suggest combat; that of Augusta Longbottom, Matriarch of the Longbottom clan, and young Neville Longbottom, classmate and friend to-" Hermione swallowed, "-Harry Potter." She quietly set down the paper, not bothering to finish the article.

Once again, all eyes were on Draco. He was unsure how to feel. Neville always seemed like a pathetic mess of a boy, but that didn't mean he deserved to die. Draco had to remind himself that it was not about _his_ feelings; it was about how _Harry_ would feel. He ran his fingers through his hair and felt the unusual texture of the scar on his forehead-_Harry__'__s_ forehead, he reminded himself. A lightning bolt, inscribed by a curse. A gift of years of life and years of peace until the boy savior could grow and mature and be hurt just enough to really mean it when he screamed that final spell, that green killing light. Draco caught a glimpse of battle out of Harry's memories; a graveyeard, a cauldron, a hand, a duel . . .

"He went out fighting," Draco said finally, gruffly, giving Hermione a look.

There was a silence at the table. Everyone seemed to have lost their appetites. "Well," Mrs Weasly said, standing. "I suppose I'll gather the plates. Arthur, lend me a hand?" She shot him a meaningful look, and they both retired to the kitchen.

The others had clearly left so the trio could grieve in private, but Draco could not think of anything to say. Neither could Ron or Hermione. Ron kept his almost tearful gaze on his shoes, and finally muttered hopelessly, "Might not have been killed. Might have gotten away, you know?"

"I think that this is war," Draco said, his jaw set in a hard line. "I think this is war, and there are casualties, and the sooner we end it, the sooner things like this stop happening."

"Yeah," Ron said grimly. "Still-"

Hermione, still reading the Prophet, gasped, "You again!" thrusting her finger into the paper. A tiny picture smirked and scurried from under her accusing fingertip.

"Who?" Ron asked.

"It's _Rita__ Skeeter__._ She's _back__._"

Draco sifted Harry's memories, becoming more familiar with the structure of his life. A broom closet, a crocodile handbag, and an acid-green quill that twisted and invented words and actions. A ruthless, shameless woman, unafraid of even Dumbledore.

"Hey, what's this?" Ron asked, beginning to read the article. "'Harry Potter, Boy Wonder, is our only hope'? What's she getting at?"

Hermione scrutinized the article, as if it would suddenly dissolve from glowing descriptions of Harry's bravery, integrity, and beautiful green eyes, into some sort of joke or trick. "It says here-well, it says here that she knew it all along." Hermione snorted in a most unladylike fashion. "How convenient. And it says next week she'll have an interview with _you__,_ Harry."

"Fat chance," Ron said flatly. "She gets too close, and I'll . . . I'll . . ."

"Do something unhelpful and violent," Hermione finished for him.

Ron flushed hotly, but held his ground. "Yeah, probably! Anything to keep that Skeeter woman away from Harry!" He glanced over. "You don't need that," he said, more gently. "Not now."

"But we might be able to use her," Hermione mused. "She'd be so desperate for a story-and we still know that she's an unregistered Animagus . . ."

An owl began pecking at the window.

"Hermes!" Ron said, shock apparent. He opened the window and found the note strapped to the owl's leg. Ron looked at it in horror. "Percy's _talking_ to us again?"

Hermione smiled, looking equally exasperated and amused, and unstrapped the note from the owl's leg. She unfolded it. Percy's usually serifed, flourished script was oddly truncated around the edges. The hanging letters lacked their usual curl and were, instead, jerkily brought back to the next letter. It looked as if the writer had held the quill too hard.

"Dear Family," Hermione read, "I am writing to inform you that I am coming home very soon, probably before you get this note." Hermione stopped, slipped, and dropped her mocking in the next few sentences. "I need your help. Protect Harry from everyone. You were right. Love . . . Percy." Hermione dropped the note into Ron's hands, who snatched it and scoured it for something-hidden messages, or something, Draco mused. When he was done, he looked up.

"What's that supposed to mean, 'protect Harry from everyone?' Who's he need protecting from that we haven't already thought of?" Ron said, sounding disgruntled.

"Ron, something's _wrong__,_" Hermione said.

Draco, who had been sitting quietly, took the note from Ron. They watched as Draco mouthed the words, putting a finger on the word _everyone_. It seemed pressed harder than the rest. None of this fit with Harry's memories of Percy Weasley. "This is awfully short for Percy. He must have been in a hurry."

"Yeah. For the first time, Percy shuts up, and now we're worried." Ron kicked at the table leg, disconsolate. "I'm gonna go tell Mum." He went through the door to the kitchen as if he were walking to his own execution.

Crookshanks wound his way around Hermione's legs and advanced slowly on Draco's knee. He batted at his foot for a second, and took two hearty sniffs of him. Draco could have sworn the cat narrowed its eyes and bared a single tooth before cozying back to Hermione's arms.

_Now __the __cat__'__s __suspicious__?_ Draco thought, disgusted with himself.

Crookshanks rubbed himself against Hermione so violently that the note dropped to the floor. Both Hermione and Draco stooped to pick it up; their faces came close. Draco felt some of her hair tickle his cheek, the back of his neck. She smelled like lavender.

"Sorry," he mumbled, and picked up the parchment.

A tap came at the door. Draco rose, but Mrs Weasley emerged, trailed by Ron, and she motioned for them all to sit and be still. "Who is it?" she called, her voice wavering slightly.

"Mom?" a small voice came at the door.

Mrs Weasley had descended the stairs silently until now. Her voice quavered. "Percy?"

"_Mom__!"_

Draco was unsure who opened the door, but Percy and his mother were embracing violently, and Molly Weasley looked as if she were going to drown him in kisses. "Percy! Percy!" she cried out in joy, knocking his glasses askew. "Percy, oh, how I've missed you! Oh, I forgive you! We forgive you! Oh, Percy, it really _you__!_ You're really _home__!"_

It was approximately this time that Percy fainted into the table, knocking over a salt shaker, shattering two plates, and coming dangerously close to being impaled on a fork.

Hermione winced and muttered, "Oh, dear."

Percy claimed, once he was conscious, that he was too tired to answer questions today. It had been a long day. Tomorrow, he promised. Mrs Weasley led him to Fred and George's old room and placed him in one of the beds. Shutting the door, she sighed in relief and thanks. "Sleeping like a babe," she said, misty-eyed, to the curious crowd that had followed her. Hermione, Draco, Ron, and the red-eyed Ginny were banished. Though Ginny went to bed, the others stayed awake in the living room, discussing plans.

"We should leave soon," Hermione whispered, an eerie shadow cast on her by the lantern. "The Longbottoms-" she shook her head. "If they can attack anywhere, anytime-we should leave. Perhaps within the week. The Burrow's enchantments are strong, but they're not that strong."

"Yeah," Ron said, looking down again. Draco realized he was hiding tears. "Neville-"

"Neville was the weakest among us," Draco shot scathingly.

Ron and Hermione looked at one another for a moment, and then stared back at Draco. He readied himself for a lecture from Granger.

"This isn't like you, Harry," Hermione began in a low voice. "You have every right to be angry, but . . . "

"Just think about Dumbledore, okay?" Ron interjected roughly.

"How he was murdered," Draco replied stiffly. "It fills me with compassion to think of it, Ron. Destroyed when he was weak."

"Not that, Harry!" Hermione hissed. "Think of what Dumbledore would say, what he would do! It's not a bad thing to grieve a little, you know!"

Ron nodded, adding, "Yeah . . . you're beginning to sound like Snape."

The insult struck him so violently that Draco did not have recognize that the anger was not entirely his own, but from another source. He glared silently at them.

"I'm going to bed, Harry. I suggest you do the same," Hermione said, rising.

Ron followed suit. "Yeah. G'night, Harry."

After they left, Draco blew out the lantern and sat in the darkness, sinking into the armchair. Like Snape? Perhaps. After living in a cave, alone, in the dark, with nothing but bats and his own nightmares-or worse, his own memories-as company, he would become cold as Dumbledore's murderer. It was lucky that Snape found him at all. He had almost been happy-for the first time in months, he had almost been happy . . . and now Neville was dead, the boy who never deserved to die.

The room was open to a faint breeze, and Draco fell asleep, feeling it lick his face. He did feel his body changing, returning to its true form, or the pen vibrating frantically in his pocket, giving him a silent, unheeded warning: _you__ are __in __danger__, __danger__, __danger __of __being __discovered__, __discovered__, __discovered__ . . ._

Draco woke to the sound of voices in the hall. It sounded like Tonks and Lupin were having what was trying to be a quiet fight. He laughed under his breath; a lover's quarrell, so to speak. He crept to the door and peered out, unaware that he was once again a grey-eyed blonde.

Across the hall, in the kitchen, Harry saw Tonks and Lupin silhouetted. At first, he thought they might be fighting, but Draco realized they were _kissing__._ Snogging away madly in the Weasley kitchen as if it were the most natural place for such things to occur.

Draco thought he was going to be ill.

Another dark figure moved, and this time from the stairs. It slipped across the kitchen, past the oblivious lovers-toward, Draco realized in horror, the living room, where he was. He leaped back to the wall behind the door just as it swung open.

"Harry," a hoarse, strange whisper came, and for a moment, in the dark, it sounded deeply familiar in Harry's memories, in Draco's memories of Harry's memories, something he had kept too close to himself to even examine properly.

Draco felt an alien leap in his heart, a wrenching exhilaration. He rubbed his forehead, trying to clear his muddled mind and felt-_no __scar__._ The strangeness of his body was his own. Draco frantically searched himself and, finding the flask in his pocket, took a shaking sip of Polyjuice potion. The door eased away from his body as he transformed.

"Harry," the shadow whispered again, now creeping further into the room. "Where are you?"

Draco touched his forehead with trembling fingers and felt the scar erupt. With a jolt, he realized the voice-he recognized the voice-he knew that voice, the voice that had fallen beyond the veil and he had always hoped he would return, and now everything was going to be all right-

"_Lumos__,_" the voice whispered. A soft light fell on Draco, whose hair went from blonde to shaggy black as the figure turned.

Percy Weasley stood, holding a wand, and looking odd and blank.

"Percy?" Draco asked hoarsely.

_"__Imperio__,_" he muttered.

Draco did the only thing he could think of. He ducked, and cast the shield charm that Potter had drilled into him. Draco's fury blazed and he fired back a hex of his own.

"_Incarcerous__!_" he shouted. The ropes bound a shocked Percy quickly and tripped him, letting him fall loudly to the floor. A few thumps followed from the kitchen-Lupin and Tonks separating, running to the living room-and they rushed in.

"Harry!" Lupin shouted. "What's going on here?"

Draco advanced, furious, on the bound Percy. It was a voice modification charm, so simple and transperent, and it sounded precisely like Sirius. Draco's mouth twisted. Someone who had known him had done this. Bellatrix, or perhaps Narcissa, or Wormtail-his gut wrenched. "Think you can impersonate Sirius, do you?" he snarled, picking up Percy by the front of his robes. "Think you can throw around Sirius' memory and that I'll come to you like some sort of lost puppy? Is that what you think of me?" He pointed his wand into Percy's face. Percy did not react but to laugh, ghoulishly, in Sirius' voice.

"Harry, put him down!" Tonks demanded, forcibly ripping Draco away.

Mrs Weasley, woken by the trouble, entered the room in a shabby dressing-gown, looking distressed. "What is it? What's the matter? . . . Percy?"

"He tried to cast the Imperius curse on me," Draco spat. "He was using Sirius' voice and he-he tried-" He pointed his trembling wand at Percy again.

Lupin had taken Percy's face in his hands and rolled his head around as the horrible laugh continued to issue from his mouth, almost mechanically. "Imperius Curse," he said quietly. "Can't be anything but that."

There was a horrible silence as they all realized what this meant. This meant they knew where Harry was-the Death Eaters were trying to get him, even now . . .

Mrs Weasley put her hand over her heart. "Oh . . . oh . . . _Harry_ . . ." she whispered weakly. She sat heavily on the sofa. "Oh, Harry, he was sent after you-by-by-You-Know-Who . . . and I just . . . I just . . . I _let __him __in__!_"

"Mrs Weasley, there's no way-" Tonks began.

"I just let him in!" She began to sound hysterical. "I've been pretending like everything's normal-as if-as if Harry's just my own son-and now-"

Part of Draco wanted to stay and comfort Mrs Weasley. "It's not your fault," he murmured quietly. He glanced at the window, catching his own reflection. Catching _Harry__'__s_ reflection. He could not stop himself from saying it. "It's hard not to trust when . . . when they look just like someone you love."

Mrs Weasley began to weep silently. "Mortal Peril . . . the clock's been saying that a year now, but I've just . . . ignored it . . . _Mortal__ Peril__ . . ._ and I blinded myself . . ."

But there was nothing for it. Percy was secured, and Tonks and Lupin offered to guard him. They would go to St Mungo's in the morning. Mrs Weasley soldiered on through, straightening the room, rushing the rest of them off to bed, keeping her tears almost entirely at bay. It was like being picked up by a gentle hurricane, a flurry of maternal movement. When Draco was put down, he was alone in the darkened bedroom. Percy's old room. Draco lay awake in bed for a long time. Still, before dawn broke, he managed to fall asleep.


	12. Chapter 12: Protracted Polyjuice Effect

The Poetic Disclaimer:

All you see is JK Rowling's

Except this lovely plot

And if you steal either for profit

I will have you shot.

...

Chapter 12: The Protracted Polyjuice Effect

The Weasley family was all dumped unceremoniously out of bed the next morning, bright and early, and dragged, along with the limp, bound body of Percy Weasley, to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. It was difficult to make Percy appear to be walking along his own-a few Muggles gave them suspicious glances-but, once through the window of Purge & Dowse Ltd, they were helped immediately by a group of healing wizards that appeared to be waiting for them in the lobby.

"Got your owl, Arthur," one replied gruffly. "You think it's the Imperius-"

"You think you can stop me?" Percy shouted, cackling, his voice still a horrible imitation of Sirius'. "You think bringing me here will stop me? Nothing can stop the Dark Lord!" Percy began to laugh, a maniacal scream behind his voice. His lungs could be seen heaving even beneath the ropes that still bound him from Draco's spell last night.

Mr Weasley paled. His wand trembled slightly. Mrs Weasley looked about to faint. Ron looked like he was going to be sick. The only sign that Hermione had even heard Percy's screams was the slight tremble in her fists that whitened around her robes.

"Well, that clears things up," the healers said grimly. "We'll take him up to the fourth floor." The wizard pointed his wand at Percy, and his body rose and floated away from the Weasley clan. "If you go up the Fourth Floor, there's a waiting room. You can wait there for an update."

"How long-do you think-" Mrs Weasley gasped finally.

"How long will it take to lift the curse?" The healer mused. "Depends on the strength of the caster. By the look of it, it's a strong curse. Difficult to tamper with. We'll do the best we can."

Somehow, his words of hope made things worse. _The best we can._ That, naturally, meant that Percy was probably going to come out the other end dead or, worse, a drooling idiot with an addled mind. Draco felt a swooping despair in his stomach.

Mrs Weasley did not moan or sob. Though she swayed a little, she turned on the group looking resolute. "Let's go," she commanded quietly. They began to ascend the stairs in silence.

Draco felt sympathy for the woman, and had before, but now he felt an overwhelming respect for her. Her son might die, or worse, go mad-and she was marching up the stairs to face it. Hermione's words returned to him-_Bravery is being scared and doing it anyway_ . . . Bravery was walking up these stairs to face whatever was happening to Percy. Draco felt a tightness around his breath. Coward, that's what he was. It was his own fault that Percy was here, under the Imperius curse, and he could barely swallow from the crushing weight of fear. The Weasleys would surely realize this and turn on him, expel him as the traitor in their midst . . . all would be lost . . .

Draco's guilt must have shown on his face, because Arthur Weasley hung back and began to walk abreast with him.

"Harry," he said in a low voice, his words masked from the others by the echoes of their thunderous footsteps. "I don't want you blaming yourself, Harry."

Draco could not speak for a moment, and finally said, weak, "But it's my fault. It's-I mean-Death Eaters . . . it's not like he was just looking to spy on the Ministry through you. He came for . . . me."

Arthur stopped Draco on the steps and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Harry, you are part of our family."

Draco felt a rubberyness in the back of his throat. "But it's my fault he's under the curse at all," he murmured.

Arthur's hand gripped tighter, and his voice sounded slightly more constricted. "No, Harry. You didn't . . . you didn't ask for this. Any of it. You're not to blame." He loosened his grip. "Don't think otherwise, Harry. Evil men do evil things. You can't blame yourself for that."

The others were now a flight of stairs above them. "We better get going," Draco managed to reply.

Arthur smiled sympathetically to Harry, and they began to ascend, taking the steps two at a time.

The waiting room was surprisingly full of families looking worried, just like the Weasleys. Draco glanced around the room, and saw the rest of the Weasleys carefully squeezed into a gap just big enough to fit them. A flurry of whispers spread around the room as the others recognized Harry and his scar, and Arthur looked worried. He steered Draco by the shoulder.

"This way, Harry," he said loudly, ignoring their pointing fingers.

"Mister Potter!" exlaimed a familiar voice.

Draco turned, a wince ready. Minerva McGonagall approached with her customary swift step and something strange-a _smile_. Draco was not used to McGonagall smiling at him. McGonagall had never smiled at him. Draco realized wryly that she was not smiling at _him;_ she was smiling at who she thought he was. Harry Potter, Boy Wonder. The Chosen One. A tiny amount of envy twinged in his gut, which Draco quickly squashed. Did Draco envy the perks of hero-hood? Certainly. But envy him what created it? The dead parents, the dead friends, the terrible weight of knowing he, still unaware of so much, would have to destroy the Dark Lord and-perhaps-die in the process? Never.

"Arthur," McGonagall nodded to him. "May I have a word with Harry, please?"

"Certainly," Mr Weasley said.

Draco suddenly felt a visegrip around his wrist. "Tell me something only Minerva would know," Mrs Weasly said flatly.

McGonagall looked startled. She pondered for a moment, selecting something from her memory. "Gideon and Fabian Prewett were the worst terrors I've ever seen in a classroom until Fred and George graced my door. All four almost got T's on their Transfiguration O.W.L.'s. Gideon somehow always managed to make whatever he was transfiguring sprout hair, and Fabian's transfigured objects were prone to spontaneous explosion."

Draco looked from Mrs Weasley to McGonnagall and back again. Molly appeared about to cry or laugh, he was unsure which. She ended up finally letting out a small _whuff_ noise, and letting go of Draco's wrist.

"Come along, Harry," McGonagall said with a small smile. She led him to a room that was full of beds, but empty of people.

Draco couldn't resist asking. "Who are the Prewetts?"

"Her brothers," McGonagall asked, a gleam of what couldn't be mischief in her eye. "Terrors, and twins, just like Fred and George. Brave, too." The smile faded. "They died fighting the Dark Lord. The last time, that is."

"Oh." Draco could think of nothing to say to this. He thought once again of Mrs Weasley and bravery, and wondered how she could stand it.

"No time for that, Potter," she said, once again businesslike. "I need to ask you a few things about-well, have you been contacted by Professor Snape?"

Draco felt his intestines tie themselves into a knot. He had climbed so far into Harry that he had forgotten that he was merely Draco, arrogant fool that he was, just hiding inside his skin. Snape, in the cave . . . Snape, telling him everything he could . . .

"No," he lied. At least he was still himself enough to lie fluently. Deception, cunning, slyness . . . the Dark ways were still in him, just waiting. His heart was a snake, coiled within him, waiting to emerge through these green eyes he wore.

McGonagall scrutinized Harry's face. "You're hiding something, Potter," she said slowly. "But I hope that you do tell me. It would be for the best if you did."

Bile rose in Draco's throat at himself, his actions, and McGonagall's damnable perception. "Yeah," he said bitingly, his anger boiling to the surface. "Yeah, there is something I'm not telling you. I hate this. I hate all of it. I hate being chased around by people who want to kill me, I hate having the people around me in _mortal peril_, I hate being questioned!" His voice became louder. "I hate having people look at me with _hope!_ I hate thinking that I'm not going to die old-that I'm going to be remembered forever as 'The Boy Who Lived for Seventeen Years and Then Died a Horrible Death!' And most of all, I hate all these people who care about my bloody _well-being!_ What if I'm _sick_ of fighting _your damn war?_"

Draco was flushed and breathing heavily. McGonagall looked unperturbed. After such a tirade, McGonagall only adjusted her glasses. She waited for Draco to calm a bit, and then spoke as if he had never shouted.

"Harry . . . we have never asked you to fight for us. We have tried to keep you as safe as we can."

Draco resisted shouting again, and merely snarled through gritted teeth. "If that's true, then why is everything falling apart around me? Why do I have to fight even to survive?"

McGonagall smiled. Draco almost throttled her for it, but it was a rueful smile, and her eyes shone with sympathy. "Because, Harry, you fight of your own accord. It is not our pressure you feel when you strive against the He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. It is the pressure of yourself, of your own personality. You feel responsible. You feel that you must help."  
"I don't," Draco muttered, but it sounded like a lie even to him. Where was his ruthlessness, his scorn?

McGonagall shrugged. "If you're quite through, I'll show you back to the waiting room," McGonagall said.

"Wait," Draco said suddenly. It must be the potion; that was the only explanation. What had Slughorn said while they were making it? The professor's voice came to him: _In all ways, the subject is transformed . . . Yes, Miss Granger? Well, the mind of the subject stays intact naturally. However, an effect has been observed . . ._ What effect? Draco grasped his temples and massaged them, trying to alleviate his growing headache. What effect? "I . . . I'm worried about Polyjuice being used to get close to us," Draco said finally.

"As you should be," McGonagall said, not moving from the door.

"I'm trying to remember as much as I can. There's an effect . . . if, for a long period of time . . ."

"The Protracted Polyjuice Effect," McGonagall said, letting the door slip from her fingers and shut softly behind her. "I know about it because Polyjuice Potion is more a Transfiguration subject than a Potions subject, once the potion itself is brewed. The mind . . . the subject's mind can become tangled with the body's customary way of thinking. The potion mimics the body at that particular point in time in all senses-scars, lost limbs, hair style and length, and brain. Thus, under extended periods of transformation, the potion-taker's own mind can become . . . more like the mind that the body is used to-unless they are so fundamentally different as to keep them separate, through language and custom or even just hugely divergent personality. In moments of emotional distress, the subject's reactions will move between two poles; either the body's or the subjects customary reaction. At first the subject will react as they would in their own body. With protracted transformation, the subject reacts more and more like the body that they have chosen to become." McGonagall shook her head. "It's too much to hope that a Death Eater would change their ways, of course, but . . . certain small things will begin to impose themselves on the transformed person . . . "

McGonagall's voice died off, and she was looking at him curiously, almost as if she pitied him. Draco felt himself going slightly mad. He was slipping away. He was becoming Harry Potter. A portion of him screamed that he would resist. He was fundamentally different than that half-breed orphan, he was a Pureblood! Another part of him laughed wryly-_be careful making that face, it might freeze that way._ He could not know for sure, but he hazarded a guess that prying Harry's memories out and diving into them might accelerate the effect. It made sense that it might. He thought bitterly how much Snape had known. What was the point in protecting Draco if, to protect him, Draco himself had to be blurred, smudged, changed?

A door swung open at the back of the room. Draco hadn't noticed it, but there was a ward behind this room. The pretty young witch who walked through looked at him quizzically.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"No . . . I . . . erm . . . I needed to get out of the waiting room. Too many people make me feel ill." Draco laughed weakly and unconvincingly.

The witch nodded sympathetically. "I know. So many new patients up here what with You-Know-Who coming back. People hexing each other on top of the Death Eater crimes and our standard mishaps." She opened the door to the waiting room, passing by McGonagall. "I hope you feel better, dear," she said with a smile.

"Is that all, Harry?" McGonagall asked quietly.

"Yeah . . . yeah, for now," Draco replied, sounding depressed.

"Good day, then," she said gently. The door shut with a soft click.

Draco immediately walked to the back door of Ward 49. Something in Harry's memories brushed against Draco's mind. Go in, it said. You will find what you need. Was this Harry's curiosity? The Protracted Polyjuice Effect? This enticing door at the back of the room must have had some significance to Harry, then-and they were two distinct people, Draco reaffirmed. Harry was someone else, somewhere else. He was Draco Malfoy. Draco was unsure of what he needed, but thought he could indulge this one curiosity on his new body's behalf. Draco was going to resist the changes. Draco was going to triumph over Harry _and_ the Dark Lord. He sneered, contorting Harry's handsome face in the window, enjoying making Harry look foolish. After entertaining himself with this, he finally gave in. Just this once, this one harmless time, he would listen to the body he wore. He opened the door and stepped through into Ward 49.


	13. Chapter 13: Ward 49

The Poetic Disclaimer:

_All you see is JK Rowling's_

_Except this lovely plot_

_And if you steal either for profit_

_I will have you shot._

...

Chapter 15: Ward 49

The door swung shut behind Draco, and he was faced with a large room. For a moment, he took it as another waiting room, but everyone was in the same outfit. It was a game-room of sorts for the resident patients, the ones too mad to be left alone or with family. One man rocked in a corner, chewing his fingernails. Another appeared to be drawing pictures on a wall. A third was muttering constantly, and waving his hand as if it held a wand.

A short witch with brown hair tightly curled in a bun approached Draco. "Here to visit someone?" she asked brightly, as if she were not surrounded by a room of rocking, drooling, slightly dangerous madmen. Before Draco could respond, a woman approached him and gently removed his glasses. She stroked around the edges of the round frames and looked at them as a child might.

"Alice," the woman reprimanded gently. "Let's give the nice gentleman back his glasses, shall we?" She drew the woman's hands forward, but her fingers clung to the glasses. "Please, Alice," she said.

The woman looked up, whimpering slightly, into Draco's eyes. She let go immediately and began to touch his face. Her fingers traced the hollows of his cheeks, the line of his jaw, and the arches of his eyebrows. Something about her eyes looked familiar to Draco, though they were opened too wide. Alice; where had he heard that name before? Where had he seen those eyes before?

Those were the eyes of a boy who did not deserve to die. His thoughts returned. Alice _Longbottom._ Neville's mother, driven mad by the Cruciatus curse.

"I'm here to visit her, actually," Draco articulated easily before he could halt the lie. Why would he say that? Why would he visit her? "I'm a friend of the Longbottom family."

The nurse look on with sympathy and handed Draco the glasses. "Right this way; you can have some private time with Alice in her room." She started toward another door, and called, "Come along, Alice."

Draco replaced his glasses and followed the nurse. Alice walked abreast with Draco, never taking her eyes off of his face-his forehead, she realized. She was staring at the hair that hid his scar, as if she could peer through it and see the scar itself, into his mind, into his deceiving heart. Guilt squirmed in his gut.

The nurse showed them into a small, neat room. A bed stood in the corner. "Please call for me if you need help." With another flash of large, white teeth, she shut the door and was gone.

Draco found himself alone with the mother of a boy he had tormented-the sad, innocent, addled mother of a dead son. Alice sat on the floor, crossing her legs, and stared up at him like an expectant little girl. Draco watched as she unwrapped a piece of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum and began to chew. One finger tapped the floor, as if she were pointing to something. Why had he done this?

"H-Harry?" a tremulous voice whispered behind him.

Alice beamed, blowing a bubble. The bubble popped over her face, covering her nose in gum.

Draco turned and saw a shimmering figure, barely visible in the bright institutional lanterns that lit the room. The figure glided forward and the face resolved itself into something familiar.

"Neville?" Draco gasped. "Is that-"

Neville's pale lip trembled. "Yeah, it's me," he said shyly. "I'm glad to see you, Harry. I . . . you must have heard. It was all over the papers." He looked away. "I didn't put up much of a fight. I'm sorry."

"What happened?" Draco asked, astonished.

Neville's cheeks became darker in what Draco realized was the ghost form of flushing. "Well-it was a reunion, see, and then Bellatrix Lestrange showed up-"

Alice Longbottom let out a yelp and slid under her bed, cowering.

"Oh no," he said. "She does that when I mention her."

"Bellatrix?" Draco asked.

Alice moaned in fear.

"Yeah," Neville replied, wincing. "Well, she showed up, and . . . Gran and I . . . we tried to fight."

A deep guilt opened in Draco like a ravine, and he tried to smile. "It's okay," he said, his voice rough. "You-you shouldn't have to. It shouldn't have happened at all."

"It's not your fault," Neville said timidly. "It's Voldemort's."

Draco couldn't stop his shock. "You say the name?"

Neville shrugged, looking exhilarated. "You, Harry, you told me that . . . what was it? 'Always call something by it's proper name,' you said. Something about fearing the name increases fear of the thing. You taught us that."

A voice rattled in Draco menacingly. Dumbledore. It was Dumbledore who had said that originally, and now Harry had passed it on.

"Besides," Neville said nervously, "I've been through the worst, haven't I? Not much left to lose by angering him." He giggled. "What's he going to do, kill me?"

"No," Draco replied scathingly. "He'll find a way to get your mum and dad out of St Mungo's and, if they're lucky, he'll kill them. If they're not lucky, he'll put them under the Imperius curse or turn them into Inferi." He ran his fingers through Harry's coarse hair. "Don't use me as an excuse for your heroics. Don't blame me for . . . _don't._"

"Harry!" Neville looked shocked. "You inspire us, Harry, there's nothing to blame-"

"You're _dead_, Neville!" Draco was furious. "Who is to blame for that?"  
"Bellatrix Lestrange!" Neville shouted suddenly, just as angry as Draco. "This is _war_, Harry! There are going to be casualties!" Neville paused, and calmed slightly. "I _chose_ to fight with you, Harry. I'd rather . . . go . . . like my parents, you know?"

Draco felt sick with guilt. How did Harry live like this, under a deluge of fault? With grim determination, he trawled Harry's memories. His own parents, killed for having him as their child, killed for a prophecy. Cedric Diggory only died because he insisted they both seize the cup, and Voldemort had a faithful spy to help execute his plan. Sirius died because Harry went to the Ministry. Dumbledore . . . they were all his fault, all these ghosts silently resting heavy hands on his shoulders, pressing him forth into bravery from cowardice, daring forged from guilt. All his fault-

No, Draco reprimanded himself. All _Harry's_ fault. Not his. He had nothing to do with it. And yet, deep within Draco, a small, pale face stirred in the arms of a black wraith, a ghost of his own. A hand touched his shoulder, and Draco turned, fully expecting to see his mother. Draco stopped breathing.

Alice Longbottom peered at him, smiling serenely. She stroked his cheek with her index finger, and took his hand. She uncurled the fingers one by one, and then placed the bubblegum wrapper in it. Nodding emphatically, she curled his fingers around the wrapper and grinned, pointing to her dead son who still floated at the door.

Draco felt his heart move up into his throat. Tears came to his eyes. Draco responded the only way that Draco Malfoy could have-with fury.

"Why don't you give it to your dead son yourself? Why don't you get up and _say his name?_" Draco threw the wrapper at her, and she scrabbled onto the bed, hiding under the covers. Alice began to wail. "Why didn't Bellatrix just kill you?"

Draco spun and opened the door, tears finally overflowing, despite his hardened jaw, despite his furious wiping at his cheekbones. He stepped through the chill space of air that represented all that was left of Neville Longbottom. Neville called something after him, but Draco didn't hear it. He didn't pause, even as the nurse approached him, looking concerned, and then rushed to Alice. Hearing her screams, the rest of the patients began to howl.

Draco paused only to wipe his face clean in the room full of beds, but a woman entered. She wore horn-rimmed glasses, and sent up a flurry of anger in Harry's memories. Rita Skeeter.

"Harry!" she said, her voice ingratiating. "How lovely, I've just been looking for you. Tell me, how have you been this last year?"

Draco clenched his teeth and prepared to spit venom at her. Where once words of anger lay, though, there was only an emptiness. Harry's emptiness. He pushed past her.

"I'm just on my way to visit your friend's parents," she tried again, picking at the wound. "You know. The Longbottoms. Terrible thing, those murders."

The words rang against an empty chamber in Draco's heart. His hand was on the doorknob.

"And Dumbledore, my word . . ."

Draco felt his hand tighten around the knob, and he felt a rush of what should have led to viciousness. Draco opened his mouth to speak, but no words emerged. Instead, something slow and full of quiet anger came out.

"Go, Rita. You're not welcome here. If you go through that door, I'll call security and let them know that you are an unregistered Animagus, and a Death Eater. I think they'd believe me, now. Do you care to find out?"

Draco did not wait for her reaction, though he heard her gasp. He quietly returned to the waiting room, silent and carefully disguising his distress under mussed hair. A moment later, she emerged and looked about furtively. She did not see him as she left.


	14. Chapter 14: The Fourth Horcrux

Chapter Fourteen: The Fourth Horcrux

Harry was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming as certainly as he knew he was talking to the ghost of Neville Longbottom. The words were fuzzy and faint, and his face was barely discernible, as if Harry had left his glasses behind in his own dream. Things went out of focus and there was screaming, crying, yelling, and a very loud voice howling, above all the crying-it sounded like Draco Malfoy-sobbing hysterically, "I can't, I can't, I can't, I-"

The face of Rita Skeeter loomed before him. She leered. Harry could even discern real words, now. "The Longbottoms . . . terrible things, those murders," her voice echoed eerily. She continued talking, the echoes becoming confused, a cacophonous melody.

Harry's mouth opened and an incantation emerged. "_Go back, Rita _. . ." More words came out, but Harry was pulled away from them. It felt like lifting his face out of a pool of thick potion. Harry woke with a start, a cold, bony hand shaking his shoulder. He groped for his wand, muttering, "Whassat?

"Wake up. We are leaving." A pale face loomed, moving, over Harry's bed.

Harry groped about and found his glasses. The face of Snape suddenly materialized, superimposed over the fuzzy orb that had been speaking. "Why?" Harry asked. He could have hit himself for asking; Snape wouldn't answer with anything but derision.

"I trust you wish to evaluate the plan and make sure it is up to your standards, then, Potter? I believe I have found another Horcrux. I trust you find this important enough to leave your bed for." He went to the door and said, "Ten minutes. Bring your cloak." And he shut it behind him.

Ten minutes was downright generous, for Snape, Harry mused. He swung his legs over the edge of his bed and stood, stretching, reflecting on his dream. He couldn't resist a small laugh. Rita Skeeter; he hadn't thought about her in quite some time. What a ridiculous woman. They had once looked at her as a threat. Now she was just a joke, a joke with bad hair and terrible taste in handbags.

Harry put on a pair of pants and looked before him. A cracked, dusty mirror at the end of the room hung slightly off-center, and Harry approached it. He wiped away some of the grime and saw a fractured image of his father. His father, he amended, with Lily Evans' green eyes. He smiled at himself and tried to tame his hair one more futile time. "Absolutely dashing," he muttered, making a stab at Sirius' lightheartedness, attempting to speak to himself as James Potter. "Absolutely dashing lad, we have here, and no females who can swoon over him." He tried not to think about Ginny.

He put on his robes and made a final, halfhearted attempt at his hair, for reasons he really couldn't identify. It was determined to remain messy. No matter the configuration of messiness, but the nature of the hair itself would not budge from decidedly unkempt. His attempts only worsened it. If today was it-if today was the day his luck really ran out-well. It would be with bed head.

"Fine," he muttered to the mirror, in a decent mood despite the seriousness of the situation. At least they were moving toward it. He picked up his cloak and slung it over his shoulder, turning an entire stripe of his body invisible. When he shook out his robes, a piece of parchment fell free of them. It was blank, but something touched the back of Harry's memory. What had he left in the pocket of these robes? With a growing grin, Harry whispered, "_I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,"_ and tapped the parchment with his wand.

Ink began to blossom on the page. Harry beamed. The Marauder's Map, by some chance of his own forgetfulness, had come along. Some remnant of his father and Sirius were hiding in his pocket all along. "Mischief Managed," he said, before the parchment was full of map. He took out a quill and wet it in ink.

_Harry Potter, requesting to speak with James-_Harry crossed out the proper name, and replaced it with the nickname-_Padfoot and Prongs._

A line of script materialized. _Harry Potter? Are you related?_ a spiky, narrow cursive asked.

A loopier, looser, flatter writing answered before Harry could. _I certainly hope so; wouldn't want the Map to fall into untrustworthy hands. How do you do, Harry? Are you my long-lost brother?_

With a smile, he imagined this as a pen-pal letter. Why hadn't he done this before? Tiny ghosts of Sirius and his father were waiting for him in his pocket. _No, Prongs. I'm your son._

The parchment was blank for a moment, and a furious scribble arose in four different scripts simultaneously. All faded, as if scratched out by a large hand, and the spiky script-Sirius, Harry thought, flushing in excitement and affection-wrote messily, _WHAT?_

_He finally got to Lily Evans,_ Harry wrote back.

_Evans! You old dog!_ Sirius wrote.

The loopy Potter script looked slightly mussed with haste and discomposure. _You're the dog in this outfit, Pads._ There was a pause. _Besides, who can resist my suavity, my charm, my-_

_Messy hair and blind eyes and gangly arms-_

_MY CHARM, Pads. MY CHARM._

Harry laughed, a slow ache in his abdomen receding. Loneliness, he realized. He hadn't even known it was there until he found some small element of camaraderie.

A straight-backed, curling script entered the conversation. _Perhaps she finds stalking attractive,_ it suggested.

_Moony?_ Harry wrote.

_None other,_ the invisible hand inked delicately, the end of it's cursive "r" curling with what Harry suspected was satisfaction.

Harry was struck with sudden inspiration.

_Tell me about Severus Snape,_ he wrote. _Anything I can go to get to him. Anything I should know._ It was a long shot, Harry knew, but he was grasping at straws, and after all the time he had been with Snape he was still no closer to trusting or not trusting him.

_Snivellus,_ a new hand wrote, in awkward and sloppy capitals, _is a unique form of a magical beast that holds most of its power in it's gargantuan nose._

_Indeed,_ James agreed. _Mammoth nose-_

_Nose that deserves it's own small country-_

_ But what about HIM?_ Harry scribbled, interrupting, so intent on the paper that he didn't even hear the door open.

"Enjoying yourself, Potter," an icy voice asked from the door.

Harry stuffed the parchment in his pocket, hoping Snape hadn't seen it. "I'm ready," he stuttered quickly. "Where-"

"Take care of that map," he said. "We will need it later. Not today."

"Map?" Harry said. As he said it, he knew how transparent the lie was. Snape did not look convinced, and Harry glared stubbornly and stuck to it. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You are wasting my time with lies. I trust you are prepared."

"Yeah," he said, stuffing his wand into his jeans pocket. "What's the plan?"

"We have come by a stroke of luck in this, Potter. My research leads me to believe that the Dark Lord put this horcrux deep in the site of an extremely magical battle. Rowanhenge, you might recall from your history lessons."

Harry didn't, but he thought it best to nod along.

"The place has been unearthed by Muggles as an archeological site. Since the Dark Lord does not follow Muggle news, he has not learned of it-but there is a golden quill in a Muggle museum."

"A-what?"

"Ravenclaw's quill," Snape said.

"Hold on, you've-you've found it? You've done it all without me?"

Snape gave him a cool, appraising look. "I did not want you in my way."

Harry anger mounted. "In your _way_? I've fought Voldemort loads of times, and-"

"You will not say his name," Snape snarled, "And I have fought the Dark Lord every time I have been in his presence-every time he has called for me since his return-every time I have been forced into the company of Bellatrix Lestrange, who even now, even after I have murdered Albus Dumbledore, even now distrusts me-I have fought the Dark Lord daily since Dumbledore's death, and _you-"_ here he thrust a finger at Harry, inches from his nose, "You assume you could do it better than I?"

Harry's hands were fists at his sides, and it took all his will not to push the finger away from his face. He drew himself up to his full height-almost as tall as Snape, he realized-and spat, "No, I don't think I could do it better, but I think I could _help_."

"That is the wish of a child."

Harry exploded. "This is my _life!_ This is _everything!_ This is what I've been training for, this is what I've been working toward since I was eleven years old! Ever since they told me what really happened to my mom and dad!" He was white-knuckled. "_Dumbledore _trusted me."

"Dumbledore," Snape said coolly, "Is dead."

Harry shook with fury. "So is everyone else I've ever looked up to, and-almost all of them-are _your _fault-"

Snape stared him down, his expression unfathomable, his face blank and lip curling upward in a sneer. Harry willed himself not to back down. He was no longer eleven; the days when this man, this black and hateful spectre could scare him were past. _I'll kill him if he gives me a reason. I'll do it,_ Harry thought, and he was sure this intent was writ so clearly on his face that Snape would not even have to perform Legillimency to find it. _It would be so easy. Let him see how easy it would be._

Snape broke the silence. "Either come with me or do not. It makes no difference to me. I could accomplish this on my own. Make your decision." He stepped back and seemed to compose himself for a moment. "Well?"

Harry took a few deep breaths, tucking away his anger as best he could. He relaxed each finger in each of his fists one by one. "What's the plan, then?"


	15. Chapter 15: The Quill

Author's note: If you're reading this from wayyyy back when, when it was originally posted, you should know that this is the point where we go off the reservation. I've switched around some plot points. So: this is all-new material! Enjoy.

Chapter Fifteen: The Quill

The plan was not so much a "plan" as Snape explaining that they would Apparate in the museum, attempt to snatch the quill-invisibly, of course-and Disapparating before anyone could notice. Snape suspected that the Dark Lord still didn't know where the thing was, and was unaware that any horcrux besides the book-which he had replaced with Nagini-had been destroyed.

"But how can you be-" and Harry's final word had been mean to be "sure?" but Snape had tired of explaining, seized his arm, and disapparated. The unexpected squeezing sensation almost made him ill. Harry felt that he was falling, and there was a great crash, and total darkness-

Harry's hand found his wand. The other hand found his eyes. He was flat on his back on a cold, hard floor. Harry stifled a cough-the wind had been knocked out of him by the fall-and opened his eyes. The ceiling of the room was high and dark. Harry sat up and his head thunked against porcelain. He reached above himself with a faint curse, and discovered that he had hit his head against a urinal. Harry was sprawled on the reflective marble floor of an elegant museum bathroom.

Snape was sitting in a sink, cursing quietly.

Harry groaned. More aches voiced their presence across his body. What would soon be bruises marked his shoulders and back. Nothing felt particularly broken, though. "What-"

Snape snapped, "It appears I miscalculated the altitude of this area by two meters-" he climbed out the sink gingerly, and began to unpack potions. "Which means we were saved a rather painful splinching by the high ceilings of this room." Snape threw back the contents of one small bottle and wiped his lips on his sleeve. He shuddered violently, and then straightened. With a renewed vigor in his step, he proffered one of the potions to Harry.

Sitting, Harry muttered, "Whassat?"

"One of my inventions, and you'd best be glad for it."

The potion was awful and bitter, gagging poor Harry, but he felt new life course through him as it flowed down his throat. He stood, carefully avoiding the urinal, and brandished his wand. "Right. Ravenclaw's quill."

"Put on your cloak and follow me," Snape said quietly, downing another two small potions from his robes and stowing the empty bottles away, somewhere, with his wand.

Well, at least they both were whole, Harry thought. Hesitantly, Harry followed Snape. The darkness and the hush pressed down on the silent museum, and Harry was blind and hesitant-and Snape seemed to be fading as well. At first he thought it was a trick of the light, but no-it must be invisibility potion. He paused, squinting to find Snape in the darkness, and the fading figure before him sighed and snatched the boy's glasses from his face, his hand turning translucent as he did so. Harry tried to let out an exclamation of indignation and take them back, but Snape muttered a spell quickly and pressed them back into visible Harry's hand that emerged from beneath the cloak. Harry put them back on unthinkingly and gasped as the entire museum was suddenly illuminated. "How-"

Everything outside of the view offered by his glasses was still dark, but an eerie sort of luminescence brightened what he could see through them. Harry also found himself seeing things that even normal light could not illuminate. Snape seemed to have an aura, and his left arm had a strange, dark appearance, almost tinged red. Shocked, Harry turned to Snape, and whispered, "You're glowing. Your arm-"

Snape hissed back from across the room, "You don't think you're seeing real light, do you, Potter? I just enchanted your glasses so you could see magic. I have done the same to my eyes. The quill will glow brilliantly. It will make our trip much faster. " Snape drew his marked forearm closer to his body, as if it pained him. "As for my arm, your scar looks much the same."

Harry did not have time for a retort. Snape's arm flashed suddenly brilliant white, and Harry was grasped by sudden pain. His wand hand seized up, twitching, and Harry fought for control. Harry's wand dropped to the floor, clattering loudly, and he let out a grunt of pain.

Through a haze, the towering, dark figure of Snape approached and swooped upon him. Harry could almost see concern on his face-or the thing that shimmered colorlessly where his face would be. "We must hurry. The Dark Lord knows-" Snape cut himself short with a slicing movement with his wand. A sharp, metallic ping, and Harry recognized the distortion of a perfectly convex mirror wall, and the red flash of light had reflected from it. Dimly, in the distance, he saw shimmering figures, cloaked in masks and magic. He fell to the floor, and the distortion followed him. The muffled noise of reflection came to Harry's ears.

Harry watched Snape levitate three tiny bottles together. A tiny gap appeared in the wall, and the bottles zoomed through. Far away, Harry heard an explosion.

Energy suffused him from the stomach outward, and Harry sat up, rolling into a crouch, making sure he was covered by the cloak. "What was that?"

"Explosives. Muggle-made." Snape's voice was close now, hushed. "I am going to dispel the shield. We must get the quill and disapparate as quickly as possible. They are here. Hide along the wall."

A faint snapping noise, and the shield disappeared, and Harry sprinted to the wall, sliding along it. And as he reached the wall, several things happened at once.

First, the fluorescent lights overhead flickered on, and Harry suddenly saw a few Muggle guards-effectively invisible, with the enchantment on his glasses and the darkness. The Death Eaters-for Death Eaters they were-all whirled on this intrusion, and they all blazed bright with magic that began to fly toward the Muggles. A clattering bang, and the shelter around the quill was gone, vanished, and the quill disappeared as well. One Death Eater let out an unholy shriek. The Muggles, dead, toppled to the floor. An fierce, piercing alarm began. A shimmering figure darted toward him, holding something almost blindingly bright.

Harry watched one of the death eaters whirl, tracking the shimmering figure's progress visibly with his wand tip, and before he could think, Harry pointed his wand at the figure and shouted, "_Levicorpus!"_ The man was wrenched into the air, and the green-lighted curse ricocheted harmlessly into the air.

Snape-for it was Snape, carrying the brilliant thing in his burning red arm and trying to grab Harry-cursed under his breath. The first Death Eater was almost useless with inaccuracy, as he was upside-down, but the other two were advancing on Harry, knowing his direction by hearing his voice. One of them hung back and was muttering an incantation, something-

"We can't disapparate now, he's performing a countering hex," he hissed, and Harry and Snape both threw themselves out of the way of a single, lucky curse. "The fire exit-"  
Harry shot off two hexes and ran, following the shimmering figure of Snape as it careened around a corner and down a hall, toward the green EXIT sign. A few spells converged behind him on some sort of artifact, some piece of bizarre pottery, and set it ablaze. And now the Death Eaters could hear them running, could see Harry's heels as they kicked up the edges of the cloak. Harry spun on his heel, shouted, "_Reddere incanto!"_ and cast a huge silvery wall behind him, almost completely covering the passageway they had sprinted down. Even as he cast it, a sizzling noise told him that curses were burning through, but he was catching up with Snape-

A hand seized his shoulder, and he forced Harry aside as a curse soared past him so close he could hear it. Snape's grip tightened and then released him. Something wet splattered onto Harry-he could not see what it was, but it was warm and wet. Harry's heart was in his throat, and he found his feet, held onto the bright figure before him. Snape hadn't made a sound, but he seemed stopped, hands covering his shoulder, something silvery and glittering leaking forth, and Harry half-dragged him across the threshold of the door. The Death eaters were running to the holes they had burned, pointing their wands through and firing spells, and one of them was muttering, the wall formed cracks and began to splinter-

"We have to get out of here," Harry panted. "We're out-come on-"

Snape took in an audible, shuddering breath. As two black robed figures appeared across the street, and the wall finally shattered, Snape grasped Harry's arm so tightly it hurt, and they disappeared into squeezing darkness with the quill.


	16. Chapter 16: The Enemy of Mine Enemy

Chapter 16: The Enemy of Mine Enemy

They appeared in the study of Grimmauld Place and Snape's weight sagged on Harry immediately, as if he were dead, and Harry panicked, shoving his arms underneath the man, trying to hold him up-but Snape shoved him away roughly.

"The quill," he barked. "Don't touch it-just take it-"

Harry pulled out his wand and levitated the thing, and then sent it flying to the mantel. It hit the wall above the mantel roughly and made a high pitched chime that rang throughout the room. Harry watched Snape down another tiny potion bottle and suddenly, he seemed to take on more weight-he was becoming visible again. And it was only then that Harry realized that his face and hands were wet and sticky with blood. Snape's blood. The spell that had been meant for Harry had not been one he knew. Snape collapsed forward, onto his hands and knees, blood dripping from him and pooling on the floor.

They needed help, and, absurdly, Harry could only think of one person who would have to help, no matter what. "Kreacher!" Harry bellowed, and the house-elf appeared, ready to screech and complain. But Harry's face was pale and frantic, and he spat his orders quickly. "Bandages-clean bandages, um-healing potions or healing draught from Snape's quarters-water, I guess, water and a basin-go, get it now-"

The house-elf muttered to himself, but did not argue. When Harry turned back to Snape, he had slumped over on the floor.

Harry performed the silent charm without even thinking, lifting the increasingly visible Snape into the air. The wound was obvious. Blood has smeared on his face when he had collapsed. It looked through-and-through his shoulder, whatever it had been. Harry used his wand to trim away the robes around his shoulder in a rough circle around it. With a sickening lurch, he saw shards of bone, blood pulsing through the hole with Snape's heartbeat. It was wide enough to stick his wand down it and not touch the sides.

Kreacher reappeared. "Master-" he said, and then faltered as he saw the wound more exposed.

"Help me clean it-"

"Master does not want to clean off the wound with water," Kreacher said quickly, and then clapped his hand across his mouth, as if he had said something terrible.

Harry paused, his hands on the basin of water. "Why not?"

"Kreacher recognizes this wound." The words tumbled out, past his hand, almost unwillingly, and his eyes were shining-could Kreacher be crying? Harry didn't have time to be shocked.

"Help me heal him," Harry begged. "You have to help me heal him. I order you to help me heal him."

Kreacher shook his head slowly. "Kreacher cannot help, Kreacher cannot, there is nothing Kreacher can do-"

"Kreacher, I order you-"

"Kreacher has tried to heal these wounds before!" the elf snapped, shouting above Harry's voice. "Kreacher's magic can do nothing to this-it is beyond Kreacher's abilities. It is wizard magic only that can heal this. Stupid half-blood expecting Kreacher to-"

Harry ignored his invective and looked back at Snape. Snape's head lolled limply. He was pale. His chest barely rose and fell with breath. The thought came, unbidden, as if someone had whispered it across the room: _It would be so easy to let him die._ Harry shook his head, but the thought was in him now. He remembered his insolence, his open promise to kill Snape not an hour previous.

Harry turned back to the elf. "Have you seen this before?" he asked slowly.

Kreacher seems to struggle with the order. Finally he spat out, "Once."  
Harry had never known a house-elf to be so taciturn. "When?"

Kreacher shook his head. "Master Regulus," he crooned, his voice full of sadness. "This is how Master Regulus died, Kreacher remembers-Kreacher remembers-"

And Harry realized suddenly that Regulus Black had been one of Kreacher's masters-that Kreacher might miss him, that Kreacher even had the potential to hate the Death Eaters for the murder as much as Harry himself did. And again, it came, as if the speaker who has whispered it had moved closer: _But it would be so easy to let him die._

"The same people who killed Regulus did this," Harry said gruffly. "Kreacher, _tell me how I can heal him_."

Kreacher's jaw worked, and then he nodded once, sharply. "Master must draw the poison out first," Kreacher said. He disappeared with a crack, and then reappeared with an empty basin and a large jug of milk. "Master must pour it through to draw out the poison," he directed, seeming to relish his new power.

Harry hesitated, his hand on the jug. He remembered Sirius with a sudden and painful intensity. "We are trying to defeat the people who killed Regulus. Can I trust you?"

The house-elf narrowed his eyes. "Yes, half-blood beast of master can trust Kreacher. Kreacher cannot lie to Master."

"And this won't hurt him, it'll just help draw out the-poison or whatever?"

Kreacher looked murderous. "Master questions Kreacher as if Kreacher knows things. Master is cruel, so cruel-"

"Answer me!" Harry snapped, his ire rising.

The house-elf swallowed. "Master must flush the wound with milk. Master does not know that water would drive it further in-no, Master, milk, only milk."

Harry lifted the jug of milk and poured it over the bloody wound. It came away in the basin red, and then pink. As he watched, a vile purplish swirl emerged in the milk. Harry had never really learned antidotes-and, he realized, remembering the cramped script of _just shove a bezoar down their throats, _neither had Snape. Harry was completely on his own. He felt a sudden swelling of gratitude for the ugly little elf before him.

"What do I do next?"

But Kreacher shook his head and pulled at his ears. "Kreacher does not know," he moaned, "The book bit Kreacher when Kreacher tried to look further, yes, it did, Kreacher does not know any more than this! It is dark magic, the half-blood would not understand it, it is dark, dark-"

Harry closed his eyes, and his scar prickled, trying to think. Something Snape had said came back to him. Dark magic was just free-form magic, magic not restricted by spells-well, this, whatever it was, he certainly couldn't make it worse. But he felt a strange and growing certainty the he could fix it, whatever it was. Harry gulped air, and put his shaking wand toward the hole, his anger and fear calming to a cool flame inside of him. He wasn't sure what he was trying, but he could feel it. It was as if someone were murmuring instructions into his ear, so quietly he couldn't make out the words, but he understood the meaning.

His wand-tip glowed a dull orange and felt warm in Harry's hand. He would have to force it; the wand didn't want to do his bidding. The thought came from afar, but it seemed true-he would have to force the spell through his wand. He screwed up his face, bit his lip-

The wand began to vibrate, but out of it came a brilliant crimson mist that flowed down through Snape's shoulder. As it passed through, it darkened and settled on the milk in the basin like fog. The darkness that tinged the mist seemed to seep into the milk, and the evil purplish cast the milk seemed to darken.

But it wasn't finished. Snape was still bleeding. He was still weak. He could almost see the dim, thready pulse in his throat, shimmering before him through his still-enchanted glasses. The mist rose in tendrils, like fingers, as if it were being sucked through the wound to his hand. Kreacher was muttering something, frantic and low. Harry tasted blood in his mouth, but it wasn't important; he bit down on his lip harder. The mist hesitated, and then it slithered into the hole like a snake. Snape seemed to stiffen, his face twitching with pain-Harry could see the pain, he could taste it on his tongue, mingling with his own blood, there was almost a delight in it-and suddenly there was flesh beneath his wand, a angry red scar, and Harry felt a searing pain in his own shoulder that burned like a brand.

It was all Harry could do to keep him afloat. The pain was immense. But he managed it, and placed the still limp body of Snape-face free of expression, now free of pain-on a chaise lounge across the room.

Harry sat heavily and it was as if a light had been snuffed out in the room, or as if someone had just left without bidding goodbye. He tasted blood in his mouth, felt something warm and wet soaking his shoulder. He peeled away his shirt collar. It was as if someone had copied the wound exactly and removed just the skin on Harry's shoulder in the same location, the same shape. Harry wondered with a sickening lurch if the thing he had done had taken other bits from his own body-and if so, what parts? What bone? What blood? How had he done this? And, more importantly, _what_ had he done?

Harry picked up the bandage and dabbed at it, wincing. Its twin was on his back-he could feel it throbbing-but he could not quite reach it himself. His wand arm was so tired his wand shook when he tried to raise it. "Kreacher," he croaked. "Could you-please-just help me bandage-"  
The house-elf was totally silent, his eyes huge and full of awe. He obeyed, touching Harry's back with something that bordered on reverence.

Once Harry was patched up, the house elf asked, "Harry Potter hates this wizard. Why is Harry Potter wanting to heal him?"

_Because I am weak._ No, that wasn't it. "Because-because he's helped me. This was meant for me. They shot this spell at me." Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose. "How did you know how to treat it? What was it?"

Kreacher's ears wobbled. "Kreacher looked in books. It is very dark magic, Master, not that half-blood master knows anything of dark magic."

"And you do?"

He puffed out his tiny, thin chest. "Kreacher has served this noble house of Black for years, he has, he has seen things come in and out of this house that would turn stupid Master's hair green and melt his eyes out, he has, he has served this noble house of Black his whole life . . ."

"I suppose you have." Harry pursed his lips. "Can you watch him and let me know if he wakes? I'm starved."

Kreacher looked affronted. "Horrible, Master is horrible, he insults-" He disappeared with a crack and reappeared with a scone in hand. He shoved it into Harry's open mouth and sat, arms crossed and sulky, as if Harry had just ordered him to fetch it.

"Sorry," Harry mumbled through stale scone. "Is this-blueberry?"

"Master cannot tell the difference between blueberries and mold, oh, for a master who would appreciate-"

Harry wiped the moldy scone out of his mouth and said, in measured tones, "I _do_ appreciate you, Kreacher. I appreciate your help."

"Master mocks Kreacher!"

"No," Harry said emphatically. He looked directly into Kreacher's huge eyes. It took effort, but he summoned up Hermione's face before him and tried to push Sirius' face away, tried to forget the taste of stale scone and focus on the eased pain in his shoulder. "Thank you, Kreacher. You've been a huge help."

For the second time since Harry had met him-for the second time tonight-Kreacher was gobsmacked and wordless. He scowled, and then disappeared again.

And Harry was alone.


	17. Chapter 17: The Telling of Lily & James

Author Note: Sorry, this is all new stuff, and I'm trying to set up new things and hammer out more polished bits and make Real And Final Decisions about the ending, so . . . yeah. Took a while. But here it is!

Chapter 18: The Telling of Lily and James

When Harry woke, he was alone. He must have fallen asleep in the couch, his wand digging into his side, and he straightened his glasses on his face and smoothed his rumpled t-shirt. He stood, and took only one step when the house-elf popped into existence before him with a bang.

He scowled, but he carried a tray laden with tea and biscuits. "Master," he said, and then cracked out of existence as quickly and loudly as he had come, as if the servitude galled him.

Harry tried not to let the shock show on his face, but the tea was fresh and lukewarm and well sugared, and the biscuits were only slightly stale and, Harry noted upon inspecting them, flecked with poppy seeds and not insects. He found himself remarkably hungry, and once he had finished both, he lifted the tray and carried it through the door, intending to take it to the kitchen. But in the hall, he could hear voices-and one of them sounded so familiar it made his heart leap. He set the tray down as quietly as he could and crept close to the door, and heard Snape speak:

" . . . more dangerous than we had originally anticipated."

"And you still have not told him?"

"What is there to tell?" he snapped.

"Severus-" and with a jolt Harry realized the voice was Dumbledore's, that Snape was speaking to Dumbledore, that Dumbledore was through this crack in the door, and he pressed himself close to the doorframe as he could so he would not miss a word. "I must depart for now, but you must know that Harry is not a stupid boy, and more importantly, he is a curious boy. He will ferret it out one way another and put two and two together."

"It is my concern, Albus, and mine alone."

Dumbledore sighed. "If I thought there was anything I could tell you to persuade you otherwise, I would do so. Good day, Severus."

Harry could not hold himself back any longer. He burst through the door, crying out, "Professor, wait!"

But it was only Snape there, standing before a bit of mirror in a gilded frame. He turned slowly and faced Harry, his face already contemptuous. "Ah. Potter. I thought I heard you skulking about."

"Where did he go?"

"Whom?" Snape asked lazily, gathering up a few things from around the room. He was methodical, slow-a book, a length of chain, a few mysterious looking bottles.

"I heard him," Harry accused. "Professor Dumbledore. I heard him!" As the words came out of his mouth, Harry realized how foolish he sounded. He reddened. "I mean, I thought-"

Snape spread his hands. "I see no one," he said. "But by all means, if you care to search the room. After all, you have wasted more than two days sleeping on that couch."

"I've-what?"

Snape seemed to be really getting into the swing of mocking him, relishing Harry's shock. "I've managed to locate another horcrux in this time, of course. Or did your mother never teach you that things go on even while you sleep?"

Harry's fists were so tight, his nails cut into his palms. "My mother, in case you've forgotten, is dead thanks to you and your lot."

Harry expected a sharp retort, but instead, something strange passed across Snape's face, almost as if he were in pain. But it was gone in a an instant, and Snape sneered again, his voice dripping sarcasm. "How dare I forget your tragedy. My apologies, Potter."

Harry took a few deep breaths, and then muttered, "Yes, you're quite welcome for saving your life, sir-"

"And there is another matter," Snape interrupted. "How precisely did you manage to heal such a wound? That was rather dark magic."

Harry set his jaw, his eyes mutinous. "What do you care? Still alive to mock me, aren't you?"

Snape's voice was cool. "Then I believe we are even. Or have you forgotten the times I have saved yours?"

Harry's fingernails dug into his palms, and he was almost on the verge of whipping out his wand and cursing the man before him, consequences be damned. A remarkably Hermione-sounding voice in the back of his head was saying _Stop, don't, he's not worth it, he's much faster and stronger and smarter than you are_-and suddenly, again, it was as if someone was in the room, pulling at him, tugging him away from his anger. He found his fists aching with tension, and he consciously relaxed them. The fury was there, but now it was cold and sure, frozen and bright and sharp. It was as if he had been shoved back a few steps from himself, his ego, and Snape's ploy was transparent. "I know what you're doing."

Snape raised an eyebrow, and gestured mockingly for him to continue.

"You're trying to distract me. I know that I heard you talking to Dumbledore in here." Harry took a breath, and then another. With every word, he felt lighter, bouyed up by the tiny, bright flame of anger. This man thought it would distract him, hurt him, make him easier to control. But the anger wasn't clouding his vision. It was fuel. "He said you should tell me something."

Snape's mouth was a hard, thin line of annoyance. "And you, I'm certain, heard my response." He returned Harry's placid gaze with a glare.

"You took that spell for me," Harry said. It wasn't a question. "You shoved me out of the way."  
"I will take your thanks as implied," Snape said dryly.

"Why," Harry said, enunciating, his voice low, "Why are you helping me?"

Snape's cheek twitched. In a tone that mocked Harry's own, he said, "I have made a promise. I intend to keep it."

"Dumbledore's dead."

"That changes nothing." He was growing angry-and, Harry knew, that most likely meant he was coming closer to the truth. Something told him to return Snape's gaze, to not look away.

The parchment in Snape's hand was smoking ominously, and Harry was uncertain if it were himself setting it aflame or Snape himself. A tiny blue flame erupted, and Snape stopped glaring at Harry and looked down, smothering it with a crackle of magic from his wand. Flecks of ash drifted to the floor. "You missed," he said.

"I thought it was yours," Harry said coolly.

Snape raised one eyebrow and did not respond. Harry felt his probing eyes tried to prod at his mind-finding what he was playing at-but Harry managed to rebuff the attack easily, it was so clumsy and transparent. He was weak, he should kill this man where he stood, do the world a favor. There was no reason why he could not complete this mission by himself. Snape was surly dead weight.

"I thought," Harry drawled, inspecting his wand with excess casualness, "That you saved my life because my dad saved yours, and you felt indebted."

"Enough," Snape said.

"No, I don't think so." Harry took a step forward. His wand was in his hand, and he wasn't sure how it had gotten to pointing at Snape, wasn't sure how it had begun glowing with energy, wasn't sure what he was going to do, wasn't sure what, exactly, would be enough for him to stop moving forward and focusing on the hard, white-hot thing burning inside of him like a lighthouse. "You keep comparing me to my father, but do you know what I think?" He took another step, and Harry saw fear in Snape's eyes, real fear, hidden miles below the anger and contempt, and it grew in fits and starts with every step Harry took. "I think you hate me because I remind you more of _yourself_ than anyone else."

Snape's mouth, resolutely in his rote sneer, faltered. "You don't understand the first thing about me," he said, but he seemed less sure of himself by the moment.

"Everything good has been robbed of us," Harry hissed. It was as if Harry himself were not speaking, as if something had opened beneath him and was speaking through him. He pressed his mind forward and outward, plucking the words from Snape's mind, knowing it to be true even as he spoke it. "Everything has been taken, and mutilated, and gone, and gone, and yet still, fragments remain to taunt us-"

Blazing in his mind's eye as suddenly as lightning, he saw sixteen-year-old Lily Evans, her lips moving, she was saying something, and reaching forward toward his face-and just before he could hear her, Harry faltered, and something clapped shut. It was like a light going out. He blinked.

Snape seized the instant where Harry fumbled and the shield charm went off with such force that it knocked Harry back several feet. The image of Lily in his mind's eye disappeared, and Snape marched over to him and seized the front of his shirt, wrenching him upward. His wand stuck painfully under Harry's chin, an open threat. "What are you playing at, Potter?"

"I wasn't-I didn't-" Harry wasn't even sure what he was trying to say, but he spoke quickly, trying to forestall the fury he saw staring back out at him through Snape's face, mere inches from his own. "I don't know what happened. It was like-there was something else there-like it wasn't me, or it was me, but not-"

Snape dropped him unceremoniously to the floor, but did not draw his wand away. The cool, cruel composure Harry had just a moment ago was shattered, and when he reached into Harry's mind, there was nothing stopping him, and Harry relived the last few minutes yet again.

For a a moment that stretched forever, Harry lay on the floor, his breath coming quickly, sure that this was the end, that this was too much for Snape to abide, that he would surely, at least, cast him out. But whatever he found in Harry's mind must have satisfied Snape, because he turned, straightened his robes, and snapped, "Pick up your wand."

"I'm not going to fight you," Harry said, righting his glasses and not taking his eyes off Snape.

For his part, Snape kept his back turned, re-settling his robes about his shoulders, a note of weary exasperation in his voice, as if he were speaking to a class of exceptionally stupid first years. "Despite ample reason, I am not in the practice of murdering children."

"I'm not a child." Harry found his wand with his hand. It was still whole, intact.

Snape turned back toward him. "Then stop acting like one."

Harry staggered to his feet. "I'm not. That wasn't my fault. I don't know-"

"The last time we dueled, Potter, I gave you a piece of advice." His voice was sharp, dripping with sarcasm. "I had hoped you might take it to heart."

Harry thought back, and gritted his teeth. "Mouth shut. Mind closed. Right." In his gut, he felt the flaring echo of the fury of that night, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. Wearily, Harry rubbed his scar, which was throbbing dully now. "Was that-him?"

Snape paused, mid-motion, as if he were weighing his words. "No," he said finally. "I do not think so."

"But it wasn't me," Harry said desperately. "Was it?" He blinked a few more times. "I mean-I didn't even know-was I in your mind?"  
"Does it matter?" he snapped.

"Yes, I'd say it bloody well does. If I can break in, can't Voldemort?"

Snape froze, knuckles whitening into fists. "Do not say the name."

"That's not an answer."

"There are reasons why you managed it while the Dark Lord cannot."

Harry set his jaw. "What are those reasons?"  
"It is none of your concern."

"Of course it is!" Harry spluttered. "If he finds out-"

"Which he will not."

"You don't know that!"

But Snape did not respond. He faced Harry, arms crossed. his face closed and impassive.

Harry considered continuing on, mentioning Dumbledore, but it was like trying to stare down a boulder. Snape had shut down. He sighed, rubbed his scar, and said, "You said there was another horcrux. Which one? And where?"

"The cup. And Hogwarts, of course."

"Hogwarts? You're joking."

Snape raised a single eyebrow. "I have never been jocular with you in the past. I see no reason to begin now."

Harry reddened, but pressed on. "How would he have gotten it there?"

"I cannot say." He turned and faced Harry, his face cold, impassive, the walls firmly back up.

"What, it's a secret?"

"No." And Harry was about to respond, but Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, and said, "I don't know."

Harry couldn't smother the look of astonishment at this sign of weakness, but he fought it down and pressed on. "And the quill? How are we going to get rid of it? We should take care of it first."

"For once," Snape said, his face not mocking, not cruel, barely moving, "we agree." He turned, and lifted something, and suddenly, it was as if he had just cleaned his glasses for the first time in weeks. The room had been redone as a laboratory-and Harry wasn't sure how he had missed it before, but here it was, before him. It was as if Snape had lifted a curtain. He was instantly businesslike, prodding fires to life. It was almost like the potions dungeon-things were floating in jars, glowing eerily in shimmering fluids. There were shelves upon shelves of books, which he had seen, but not quite seen clearly. The books that Harry recognized from his ventures into the Restricted section, and others that looked like they might be at home there. One seemed wrapped in mist. Another trembled on the shelf as he looked at it. Snape withdrew a slim red volume from the shelf and flipped through it. It whimpered like a hurt child, and he pressed his wand into its spine for a moment, and it fell silent.

"Get the quill. Do not touch it."

Harry went to the door, and then said, "I stabbed the book with a basilisk fang. Can we-"

"Those are incredibly difficult to come by. If it comes to that, it is possible. But there are other options."

Harry watched his back for a moment, and then left, letting the door click shut behind him, his mind whirling.

When he returned, he carried the quill in a spare shirt he had brought. He stared at it as if it might attack him, or leap up and begin speaking. It lay docilely in the shirt, unassuming as any quill he had used in his studies, but shining as if it were lit by an unseen sun.

Harry entered the room and presented the quill, arms extended, not taking his eyes off it. Wordlessly, Snape took the thing from him with his wand, and dropped it into a cauldron of boiling, evil-smelling potion. The bubbling liquid roiled even more vigorously as the quill touched it, turning acid green, then brilliant purple, then giving off violent billows brilliantly yellow smoke, and then, suddenly, it was gone, and the quill lay at the bottom of the cauldron, glittering perhaps more than it had a moment ago. It was decidedly whole.

Snape made a nasal sound of disappointment. "Interesting." He fished it out of the bottom with the tip of his wand, and it hovered before him.

"What was that?"

"Poison. It replicates basilisk venom." He glared at the thing, as if it might break under the weight of his disapproval.

Harry nodded and swallowed. "What's next?"

He glanced over, as if he had just realized that Harry was still there with him, and guided the quill to the bench with his wand tip. "You should leave the room for what's next."

"I can help-"

"No," he snapped, with more force than Harry expected. "No. I am going to do dangerous and Dark magic. Your presence could only result in injury to one or both of us."

Harry wanted to protest, but the idea of Snape actually caring if he was hurt gave him pause. "What if you need help?"

"I will not." A ghost of the customary sneer returned. "Not from you."

"Who else is there?" Harry snapped, crossing his arms and glaring right back. "Whatever I did to your shoulder wasn't a cheering charm."

Snape scoffed, "And you could not replicate it if you wanted to. Absolutely not."

Harry's frustration burst out of him before he could help it. "It's going to be me and him at the end of the things, isn't it?" he said savagely. "I've been told that since I was eleven. It's just going to be me and him, and if I can't even help destroy a piece of him we have pinned down, here, like this, then what use am I? It's not like telling me to take naps and study my textbooks is going to make killing him any easier. What's got to be done has to be done, and I am part of this whether you like it or not."

He seemed to be taking Harry's measure. After a silence where Harry tried to match his unblinking glare, Snape straightened. "Fine."

Harry was so shocked, he couldn't help himself. "Really?"

Snape scowled. "You will remain silent." He pointed his wand, and things began setting themselves up. A small portable table with a silvery, battered-looking top began constructing itself noisily in the center of the room. "If you interfere at all, I will cast you out entirely. If you so much as breathe wrong, I will confound you and leave you where you lay until I am through." A chair whizzed up to him and poked Harry rather roughly in the ribs. "If you move from this chair, or leave the magical circle I will draw around you for your own protection for any reason that does not involve a direct threat to your life, I will lock you in a room in this house and leave you til the war is over. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Clear as . . . clear as Veritaserum." Harry swallowed and sat in the chair.

Snape drew a glowing circle in the air, and, like a shimmering hula hoop, it floated to Harry and ringed him, bisecting his vision. And suddenly, the room was still, and Snape was crouching over the table, and the bright quill was on its silver top.

Time passed. Harry wasn't sure how much-he didn't have a watch, and he didn't dare try to find out any other way. For a long time, Snape had moved his wand slowly over the thing, and figures-or something, Harry couldn't quite make it out, since the words or figures were facing Snape and thus backwards to Harry's eyes-and nothing had happened. A few times, he had prodded it, or his wand had glowed this color or that, but nothing had happened. But Harry didn't dare cross the line, so he waited, and watched, and tried to focus on patience even as his scar prickled and a voice in the back of his head, growing ever louder, egged him on, telling him to move out of the circle, snatch it from the fool before him, to not wast any more time with this-

Harry's concentration was shattered when Snape sighed, straightened, and looked directly at him. Harry almost raised his wand in response, but Snape said smoothly, "Stand up, Potter."

Harry hesitated, and then obeyed. With a wave, Snape dispelled the circle around him. Harry took it as a cue to speak. "Have you done it?"

"No," he said coldly. "It seems that there is something in the way-something that must be done to make it vulnerable enough to be attacked. It is sufficiently magical that it must be . . . preoccupied before it can be destroyed."

"Preoccupied?"

"Its energies must be focused on doing whatever it is designed to do."

Harry took a step forward, and then another. The quill seemed to glow, almost, and he was transfixed. "It's a quill," he muttered. "It's designed to be written with."

Harry had not even realized he was reaching for it until Snape's hand closed around his wrist. "Don't."

Harry looked at him, bewildered. "It's meant to be written with. I could just-"

"It carries terrible enchantments."

"Of course it does," Harry said impatiently. "I never said it didn't. But I could preoccupy it, and you could destroy it." Snape's hand tightened. "I can't think of any other way to do it and neither can you. There's no one else to help and we don't have the time to find another way."

"It is reckless and mad, and-"

"You know I'm right."

"Do not interrupt me."

"You know what I've been through. You know what I can do. This is what I'm good at, isn't it? Going through the hard things and coming out the other side?" When Snape did not reply, Harry said, "We don't have time. I know if we had all the time in the world, we could figure out some better way, but as it stands, we don't have the time. He already knows it's gone. They will have told him. It's only a matter of time before he goes looking for the ring, or the locket, and when he discovers that they're gone, it'll be that much harder to get at the cup and the snake. He'll protect them better and we won't stand a chance."

Snape gazed at him, his eyes bottomless and unreadable. He let go of Harry's wrist, and turned, fetching a scroll of blank parchment from a nearby bench. With his back turned, Snape said, "I will write with it, then."

"I can't destroy it," Harry said flatly. "You know I can't. I wouldn't even know what to look for. It's got to be me."

Snape seemed to struggle with himself for a long minute, but finally, he handed over the parchment. Before relinquishing it, he said, "It will do terrible things to you. It may put in you terrible pain, or bring your worst nightmares to life."

"I've been under the Cruciatus curse a couple of times. I've been possessed by you-know-who. I watched my godfather and the greatest wizard I've ever known be murdered in front of me. My worst nightmares are memories." Harry tugged the parchment free of his hands. "It can do its worst."

And for a moment, Snape almost looked stricken. His faced was drained of what little color it had, and his mouth moved, as if he were going to speak. But in a flash, it was gone again, he he was businesslike, brandishing his wand and drawing the chair up to the little table. He drew a larger circle that contained them both and, silently, Harry sat and spread the parchment before him and uncapped an ink bottle. When Snape nodded, Harry reached forward and picked up the quill.

It was warm. Warm like flesh was warm, or perhaps warmer, like something that had been left in the sun. It welcomed him. Harry moved to dip the nib in the inkwell, but found the it already wet with red and viscous ink. A bit of it dropped to the parchment, and then rolled along, as if pressed through from the bottom by another quill. It wrote, _ASK ANYTHING_.

Snape said, "What is it doing?"

"It told me to-to ask anything," Harry said. His own voice sounded far away. And even as he said it, the quill nib dripped once more, and more words came out:

_Ask of the past. Ask of the future. Ask of those long gone. I know all._

Harry paused, but nothing more came, and the question-the things he had wanted to know since before he had even known he was a wizard-floated before his mind, begging to be written. He could feel the form of the words in his hands He pressed the nib to the paper and wrote the words: _Tell me about my mom and dad._

The quill stirred in his hand, as if it were coming to life after a long sleep, and it began moving across the page with its own momentum, and the words came as fast as he could read them. It told of how James Potter had grown up in a respectable wizard family and had come to school with a cut-rate demiguise cloak, how Lily had grown up with Petunia and had been the apple of her father's eye. There was something trickling down his leg, something warm and wet, and the words were drying from red to brown, and Snape was making some sort of noise, but Harry didn't care. Inch after inch of parchment rolled out of his hands. The pen scribbled almost faster than Harry's hand could keep up with. Snape trying to get it to hold still using some kind of spell so he could aim properly. But Harry didn't want him to aim, Harry did not want to destroy it any longer. Harry wanted to drink in the quill's knowledge like an elixir. He felt himself filling up with it, with the things he had longed to know since he had been an orphaned child. It was telling him now about their wedding, how her hair had fallen about her shoulders in curls, how he had stood there at the altar and held his lucky snitch in his pocket, how they each had said "I love you" and "I do," each with tears in their eyes, how his heart had swelled with love for her-and then how hers had faltered, how she had been still unsure, how she had always-

There was a bang, and a scream, and the quill writhed in his hand, pulling away from him, suddenly ice cold. Pain flooded his leg and arm and he saw, suddenly, that it was truly written in blood. His own blood. He had known it, somewhere, in the back of his mind, but he had not minded until the quill had dropped out of his hands. Blood was running down his leg, wetting his shirtsleeve-he could feel his heart beating it out of him, and he wondered how he was going to put it back, how he was going to set his swimming head right, and who was going to finish the sentence. The quill, for its part, shivered its last, and lay in a puddle of even darker blood than Harry's own.

Snape was at his side, roughly shoving up his sleeve to reveal the same words on the parchment inscribed deeply into Harry's own skin and welling blood anew.

"It didn't finish," Harry croaked. "It was going to say something important, you didn't let it finish-"

And now Snape was moving his wand over him, and humming that songlike chant that he had sung over Draco to heal the awful slashes Sectumsempra had left on him, and Harry's flesh seemed to resist it, almost, it seemed to not want to knit together properly. Harry clung to the edges of the table but found himself leaning distressingly to one side. It was almost comical. The table swam before him. "I'm going to fall over," Harry said thickly, and then did so. Snape caught him by the shoulders and slowed his fall. Pain seared across the shoulder he grapsed. There must be writing there too. Something sticky was under his head, and Snape was casting more spells, moving his wand over him, but Harry reached up and caught his wand. His hand was weak, shaking. His sleeve fell away and the bleeding words welled up again-"she had always," the s half-finished, more snakelike curl than anything else, and it seemed so important still.

"You knew her. What was it going to say?" Harry begged. "What was it going to say? She always what?"

But Snape merely shook him off and continued the spell, and a whirling, cold darkness was reaching up with clammy hands to claim him. Against his will, they dragged Harry under.


	18. Chapter 18: Theft of Mind

Chapter 18: Theft of Mind

Harry woke again, his head throbbing, a persistent ache running down his right side. Kreacher and a man he barely recognized were attending to him. He was lying on a faded divan that smelled strongly of mold and dead puffskein. The last weak rays of dusk filtered in through the dusty windowpane. He sat up, and Kreacher yelped. There was something hugely important-something gold, something that had to be killed-Harry hefted himself onto his elbow painfully, and it felt as if the mouths of a thousand tiny cuts opened and shifted and screamed with pain as he did-but this was important, a pen, or a feather, or something, and he had to be sure-

"Is it gone?" Harry demanded, not entirely sure what he was asking after.

The man seemed to start-Snape, Harry remembered his name, his name was Severus Snape, and there was a lot of _something_ attached to that name, fear and loathing and a certain small measure of respect by turns. Snape turned to him over his shoulder. "You have not lost your mind, then?"

"Was I supposed to?" The memories were resurfacing slowly, muddily. The cuts were due to the quill. It was a quill, a golden quill that they had destroyed together.

Snape turned away. "It was a possibility."

"Did you know it was going to do that?"

"No." Snape was measuring out something into a cauldron and stirring, and this seemed right, this seemed like something he should be doing, although Harry couldn't say why. "I destroyed it before it destroyed you. It resisted my first few attempts, so it got rather farther than it should have."

Harry rubbed his forehead and felt the scar there. He shook up his sleeve, and found half of the word _always_ there, peeking above a bandage. "Huh. More scars, I guess." The bandage had ridden up, as if he had tossed and turned or struggled while he was unconscious, and it oozed blood.

"Master-" Kreacher moaned. Snape handed the house-elf a flask, and Kreacher sniffed it suspiciously, and then pressed it into Harry's hands. "Drink," the house-elf begged.

Harry did, and the pain ebbed. He tried to empty his mind of it. He lifted up the hem of his jeans and slowly, silently unwound the bandage, and read there, _Lily Evans was raised in a loving home by-_

"Who's Lily Evans?" Harry asked. A face swam before his, but it seemed nothing was connected to it. It seemed so important—like something that had mattered to him desperately years ago, or something that was dearly important to a friend. "Do I know her?"

Snape set the jar of roots down and turned to him, face unmoving but eyes bright, glittering, and wide. He seemed about to speak, but instead pursed his lips and moved forward, plucked the end of the bandage out of his hand, and rewrapped his ankle. The words were already blurring together with beaded blood. Not looking at him, Snape finally managed, with great effort, to say, "You don't remember?"

"I can-sort of-" Harry screwed up his face and another dull lance of pain seared him as Snape tapped his wand on the bandage to hold it in place again with a charm. "Not really. But I wasn't sure who you were, either, but I think I've got it. You were my professor, but you're really-well, you're something else now. Who was Lily Evans?"

Snape's mouth twitched, and he finally said, "She was your mother." He took Harry's hand and a long spool of gauze erupted from the end of his wand. He began wrapping Harry's wrist, covering up the word "always" again.

"Was?"

"She was murdered."

Harry rubbed his scar again with his free hand. "Voldemort?" He shook his head, laughed. "What a ridiculous name. Voldemort. Like a kid's show. That can't be right." He looked up. "Is it?"

Snape stared at him, and Harry felt the uncomfortable prickling sensation again, and visions flooded his mind's eye-but they hurt, they seared him horribly, and they seemed like they belonged to someone else, to another person's life. But when his vision cleared, the world seemed much sharper and made much more sense. And he knew, with a horrible empty, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, exactly who Lily Evans was.

"Interesting," Snape said, dropping Harry's rebandaged wrist and moving back to the table, where he worked over three cauldrons.

Harry was mute and clenching his teeth with the pain of it. "What was that?"

"It tried to draw the memories out of you. It didn't just try to bleed your body dry. It tried to bleed your mind as well."

Harry looked up at him with loathing. "A memory charm?"

"Rather darker than that, but similar in effect."

"And you—broke it?"

"In a way. At least, the part blocking those particular memories."

Harry's anger flared. "How can I tell if I'm . . . missing anything else?"

"There is no way to know until you miss it."

"Dumbledore," Harry said, saying the name like a curse. "Dumbledore expected me and my two best friends to take on—to try to destroy _that?_ Something with that kind of power? By ourselves?"

"No," he said waspishly. "He expected me to do it."  
"That's no better," Harry spat. "No wizard alone could manage any of it alone. If that's what was on the quill itself, I can only imagine how bad the other protections must have been."

"That was one of the last ones the Dark Lord made. Its protections were remarkable. Many Muggles died on that site."

"Yeah, I'm sure Voldemort's really torn up about that," Harry muttered into his knees, wincing as the cuts shifted again. "Of course I can remember him and not my own mother. I don't think you broke it all the way, I still don't have any real memories-"

"You never knew her."

Harry looked up and Snape almost seemed to flinch away from him. "What?"  
Snape did not turn. "You never knew your mother. Everything you know about her is through other people. She died when you were very young."

Harry rubbed his scar again. He breathed deeply, once, in and then out. "I remember her voice. I remember-" he winced, "-she begged him not to kill her." He took another breath.  
"My dad told her to run, but it was too late."

Snape was looking at him, eyes still wide but unmoving. "You remember?"  
Harry didn't look up. He rubbed his temples, trying to dissipate the ache in his skull. "Not really. Bits and pieces. It's-it's what I hear when there are dementors nearby."

"What do you hear?"

Harry scrunched his eyes shut. "My dad-my dad tells her to take me and run, and then Voldemort's just there, and he tells her to stand aside, but she doesn't-" Harry rubbed his eyes. "I was just a baby. I don't even know if it's real or not."

Snape's tone was clipped. "It's real." And he turned before Harry could look up, astonished. He continued stirring.

"Were you-were you there?" But Kreacher was shoving another vial into his hands, and Snape was not looking at him. He pushed the vial back into Kreacher's hands and swung his legs around to hit the floor. "Answer me."

"Those are cursed wounds and you are preventing them from healing. Take the potion."

"That's not an answer,"

"You will not get one."

Harry tried to stand and swayed, and Kreacher let out a tiny squeal of terror, but Harry steadied himself on the edge of the divan and pointed at Snape. The world swam before him, but the dark figure at the center of his vision remained clear. "I remember now," Harry said, malice bubbling up from deep within him, mixing with his physical pain and holding him up, puffing him full of life despite the exhaustion and agony. "You're the one who got them killed. You're the one who told Voldemort about the prophecy." Snape seemed frozen before him, arms crossed, face so still it might have been dead. "Did he let you watch them die? As a reward, maybe?"

The words hung there horribly, but Snape snarled, under his breath, "You haven't the faintest clue what I have done-"

"No, actually, I've got a pretty good idea what you've done-"

Snape's wand was in Harry's face before he could blink, and a vicelike hand on his uninjured shoulder pressed him irresistibly down into the divan again. "You ungrateful little-"

"Ungrateful?" Harry could almost spit in his face. "Who defeated Quirrel? Who killed the basilisk? Who believed Sirius long enough to find Peter Pettigrew? I didn't see you rushing in to save the day when my name came out of the Goblet, or when Draco brought Death Eaters into the school right under your great sodding nose-"

"Boasting," Snape shouted, matching Harry's tone, "of rule-breaking and the senseless luck that ensures your survival beyond all likelihood, despite your determined efforts to make all the lives that have been sacrificed for your benefit go to waste. I note you failed to list," he began snidely ticking events off on his long fingers, "how your participation in the Triwizard Tournament allowed the Dark Lord to return with more power than he had before, your constant antagonizing of the children of Death Eaters who know enough Dark magic to kill you without a second thought, your regular excursions out in the castle and onto the grounds after hours under your cloak when the mundane dangers of the world could kill you, or your insistence on barging into the Department of Mysteries and endangering not only yourself and your friends-"

"What else was I supposed to do?" Harry shouted, trying to rise again. His injured leg shook violently with the effort, and the pain welled up in him to match the anger. Harry mastered both. "Maybe you wouldn't know-maybe you've never really cared about anyone else in your entire life-but that's what you do when you think someone you care about going to get hurt! You try to stop it however you can!"

Snape made a slashing motion, as if he wished to cut Harry's throat himself. "If it had been up to me, you would have been shut in Petunia's cupboard until all this was over."

"For what? To make sure I was as miserable as possible? To keep me from making any friends at all?"

"You have no idea what has been sacrificed for you, sacrifices you have tossed aside carelessly before me!" Snape was flushed now, and he towered over the seated Harry, quivering with rage. "You have no idea the scope of the effort better wizards than I have gone to, just to keep you safe!"

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but found it empty. "Safe?"

"What," he snapped, "do you think I have been doing these years? Trying to be your friend in some misguided effort to see to your feelings?" A malicious look flitted across his face. "Perhaps you would prefer if I were more like your sainted godfather, trying to make you become my dead best friend, or perhaps-"

"Don't," Harry ground out between gritted teeth. "You don't get to talk about Sirius like that."

Snape made a scoffing sound and turned, face a blank mask once more, voice returning to a normal volume. "Too many good witches and wizards laid down their lives in the service of Harry Potter. Your parents are the least among them. But I suppose you must not put much stock into their memory if that is how you treat it."

"I don't-"

"How many times," he spat, still not turning, "How many times have you willfully flung yourself in the path of danger, knowingly, as if all the people who have protected you all these years mean nothing to you? How many times have you disobeyed Hogwarts rules such that you might allow other, more powerful wizards to be injured and die for your cause?"

"There was no one else! I had to!"

"There is always someone else," Snape snarled. "You could have gone to Minerva, Dumbledore, myself, any one of the Aurors who would surely love to dote on you-"

"Yeah, because _you _inspire loads of confidence. Because I have lots of reasons to trust _you_." The scathing, sarcastic bite in his tone rose. "You've always been so nice to me, and you've always made sure I felt I could really open up to you, sir, you know, it's just difficult since I found out you got my parents killed, and you personally murdered the only man who ever really acted like a father to me."

Snape paused, almost seeming to sag imperceptibly, as if some huge weight had settled around his neck. His voice was brittle but defeated when he spoke. "Drink the potion, Potter. I am trying to heal you."

"Is that supposed to be enough?" Harry shot, not assuaged, eyes still blazing.

"I don't expect it to be. If you are waiting for me to supplicate you for your forgiveness or explain everything to you, you will be waiting for quite some time."

Harry looked at the vial again, and took it from the elf. The pain was incredible, and his anger was ebbing. Kreacher wouldn't have let him have it if it weren't for the best, a tiny voice of logic spoke from somewhere deep inside him. Kreacher would probably be able to tell if it were poison, at least. "To unhappy alliances, then," he muttered. "Bottoms up." He quaffed the liquid down. It cooled like menthol down his throat and left him tingling and awake. The pain seemed to thrash in his gut once, twice, but it ebbed away and left him clear and almost calm. Harry wiped his mouth on his sleeve, shivered slightly, and then said, "So the cup is at Hogwarts, then. How soon can we leave?"

"Not til you are healed. Those wounds want desperately to keep harming you, and they'll succeed if we're not careful."

"How healed would I have to be?"

"As completely as I can."

Harry shook his head. "How about healed enough so I can walk by myself? The faster we get rid of . . . you-know-who, the better. Doesn't really matter what happens to me besides that." Harry took a glass of water that Kreacher proffered and sipped from it, grimacing. The coldness of the water hurt his teeth and helped his headache return. "Don't really expect to live through it anyway, so it doesn't matter how healed I am."

"I don't have the patience to listen to you pity yourself."

"Pity?" Harry set down the glass next to himself. "Is that what you think it is?"

"What is it, then?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't know. There just-there might not be any point in waiting for me to be healed all the way. That's all." He rubbed his scar, and it prickled again. "I can't even fathom what it'd be like to live without him controlling my life. I don't even know what it'd be like. Maybe it'd be for the best if I don't go on after. Save myself the trouble of trying to be-normal."

Snape dropped a perfectly minced bit of root into a cauldron and stirred, but did not reply. He turned then, and Harry looked up at him, and saw something totally alien on Snape's face, behind crossed arms and his knitted brow. It was almost compassion, hidden under layers upon layers of loathing and exasperation. Snape searched his face, though Harry had no idea if what he found satisfied him, and then turned away again. "You are not alone in that," he said shortly.

It took Harry a moment to suss out Snape's meaning, and even longer to understand what a confession it was. And for the first time in his entire life, Harry wondered who Snape really was, beyond the inherited hatred he still felt for Harry. "Yeah, I guess I'm not."


End file.
